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^iMiWM 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

l!r.£c  Mrs.   Llewellyn  Buell 


ft- 


— ♦— HJti 


SONGS 


OF 


Three  Centuries. 


EDITED    BY 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND   COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1876. 


-« H!^ 


CoPYniGiiT,  1875. 
By  JAMES    R.   OSGOOD  &   CO. 


Universtty  Pres<;:  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge. 


PR 


15 


PREFACE. 


IT  would  be  doing  injustice  to  tlie  compiler  of  this  volume  to  suppose 
that  his  work  implied  any  lack  of  appreciation  of  the  excellent  antholo- 
gies already  published  in  this  country.  Dana's  "Household  Book  of  Poetry" 
is  no  misnomer  ;  and  the  honored  names  of  Bryant  and  Emerson  are  a  suf- 
ficient guaranty  for  "  Parnassus  "  and  tlie  "  Library  of  Song."  With  no 
thought  of  superseding  or  even  of  entering  into  direct  competition  with 
these  large  and  valuaT)le  collections,  it  has  been  my  design  to  gather  up  in  a 
comparatively  small  volume,  easily  accessible  to  all  classes  of  readers,  the 
wisest  thoughts,  rarest  fancies,  and  devoutest  hymns  of  the  mgtrical  authors 
of  the  last  three  centuries.  To  use  Shelley's  definition  of  poetry,  I  have  en- 
deavored to  give  something  like  "a  record  of  the  best  thoughts  and  happiest 
moments  of  the  best  and  happiest  minds."  The  plan  of  my  work  has  com- 
pelled me  to  confine  myself,  in  a  great  measure,  to  the  lyrical  proiluctions 
of  the  authors  quoted,  and  to  use  only  the  briefer  poems  of  the  old  drama- 
tists and  such  voluminous  writers  as  Spenser,  Milton,  Dryden,  Cowper,  Pope, 
B\Ton,  Scott,  Wordsworth,  and  the  Brownings.  Of  course,  no  anthology, 
liowever  ample  its  extracts,  could  do  justice  to  the  illimitable  genius  of 
Shakespeare. 

It  is  possible  that  it  may  be  thdught  an  undue  pr(^minence  lias  been  given 
to  the  poetry  of  the  period  beginning  with  Cowper  and  reaching  down  to 
Tennyson  and  his  living  contemporaries.  But  it  must  be -considered  that 
the  last  century  has  been  prolific  in  song ;  and,  if  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
still  keep  their  unapproachable  position,  "  souls  like  stars  that  dwell  apart," 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  critical  essayist  of  the  twentieth  century 
will  make  a  large  advance  upon  the  present  estimate,  not  oidy  of  Cowper 
and  Burns,  but  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  Keats,  Browning,  Ten- 
nyson, and  Emerson. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  middle  of  the  .sixteenth  century  is  the  earliest  date 
of  my  citations.  The  great  name  of  Chaucer  does  not  appear  ;  and  some  of 
the  best  of  the  early  ballad  poetiy  of  England  and  Scotland  has  been  reluc- 


921417 


iv  PREFACE. 

taiitly  omitted.  James  I.,  who.se  Queen's  Quhair  lias  hidden  his  kingly 
crown  under  the  poet's  garland,  William  Dunbar,  and  Sackville,  Earl  of  • 
Dorset,  may  well  be  thought  worthy  of  a  place  in  any  collection  of  English 
vei-se,  but  the  language  and  rhythm  of  these  writers  render  them  wellnigh 
unintelligible  to  the  ordinary  reader. 

The  selections  I  have  made  indicate,  in  a  general  way,  my  preferences ; 
but  I  have  not  felt  at  liberty  to  oppose  my  own  judgment  or  prejudice  to 
the  best  critical  authorities,  or  to  attempt  a  reversal  of  the  verdicts  of  Time. 
It  -would  be  too  much  to  hope  that  I  have,  in  all  cases,  made  the  best  possi- 
ble exposition  of  an  authoi-'s  productions.  Judging  from  my  own  experi- 
ence in  looking  over  selected  poems,  I  cannot  doubt  that  my  readers  will 
often  liaA'e  occasion  to  (]^uestion  the  wisdom  of  my  choice,  and  regret  the 
omission.of  favorite  pieces.  It  is  rarely  that  persons  of  equal  capacit\'  for 
right  judging  can  be  found  to  coincide  entirely  in  regard  to  the  merits  of  a 
particular  pcjem.  The  canons  of  criticism  are  by  no  means  fixed  and  infalli- 
lile ;  and  the  fashion  of  poetry,  like  that  of  the  world,  "  passeth  away." 
Not  only  every  age,  but  every  reader,  holds  the  right  of  private  judgment. 
It  would  be  difficult  for  any  literaiy  inquisitor-general  to  render  a  good 
reason  for  c«indemning  as  a  heretic  the  man  who  finds  the  "Castle  of  Indo- 
lence "  pleasanter  reading  than  the  "  Faerie  Queene,"  who  prefers  Cowper  to 
Dryden,  Scott  to  Byron,  and  Shelley  to  Scott,  who  pa.sses  by  Mo»re's  "  Lallu 
Eookh"  to  take  up  Clough's  "  Bothie  of  Tober-na  Vuolich,"  who  thinks 
Emerson's  "  Threnody  "  better  than  Milton's  "  Lycidas,"  and  who  would 
not  exchange  a  good  old  ballad  or  a  song  of  Burns  for  the  stateliest  of 
epics. 

The  considerable  space  which  I  have  given  to  American  authors  will,  I 
trust,  find  its  justification  in  the  citations  from  their  writings.  The  poetical 
literature  of  our  country  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  a  longer  date  than  that 
of  a  single  generation.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  very  fathers  of  it  are  still 
living.  It  really  commenced  witli  Bryant's  "  Thanatopsis "  and  Dana's 
"  Buccaneer."  The  grave,  philosophic  tone,  chaste  simi>licity  of  language, 
freedom  of  versification,  and  freshness  and  truth  of  illustration,  which 
marke<l  the  former  poem,  and  the  terse  realism  of  the  ''  Buccaneer,"  with 
its  stern  pictures  of  life  and  nature  drawn  with  few  strokes  sharp  and 
vigorous  as  those  of  Betzsch's  outlines,  left  the  weak  imitators  of  an  artificial 
school  without  an  audience.  All  further  attenqits  to  colonize  the  hills  and 
pastures  of  New  England  from  old  mythologies  wei'e  abandoned  ;  our  boys 
and  girls  no  longer  figured  in  impossible  pastorals.  If  we  have  no  longer 
andiitious  Columbiads  and  C'on([uests  of  Canaan,  we  have  at  least  truth  and 
nature,  wit  ami  wisdom,  in  Bryant's  "  Bol)ert  of  Lincoln,"  Emerson's  "  Hum- 
blflM'c,"  Lowell's  "  Courtin',"  an.l  "  The  One-Hoss  Shay  "  of  Holmes. 

In  dealing  with  contemporary  writers  I  liavi'  found  myself  embarra-ssed  by 


PREFACE.  V 

the  very  large  number  of  really  noticeable  poems,  many  of  which,  although 
•in  my  own  estimation  vastly  better  than  those  of  some  of  the  old  versifiers 
whose  age  and  general  reputation  have  secured  them  a  place  in  this  volume, 
I  have  been  compelled  to  omit  solely  from  lack  of  space.  The  future  gleaner 
in  the  fields  over  which  I  have  passed  will  doubtless  find  many  an  ungar- 
iiered  sheaf  quite  as  well  worth  preserving  as  these  I  have  gathered  within 
the  scanty  limits  of  my  compendium.  The  rare  humorists  of  our  time,  espe- 
cially such  poets  as  Holmes  and  Lowell,  can  be  only  partially  represented 
in  these  necessarily  brief  selections. 

It  may  be  observed  that  the  three  divisions  of  the  book  do  not  strictly 
correspond  to  the  headings  which  indicate  them,  —  the  first,  for  instance, 
beginning  before  Shakespeare  and  ending  somewhat  after  Milton.  It  is  dif- 
ficidt  to  be  quite  exact  in  such  classifications ;  and  as  it  seemed  desirable  to 
make  their  number  as  small  as  possible,  I  trust  the  few  leading  names  men- 
tioned may  serve  to  characterize  the  periods  they  accompany  with  a  suffi- 
cient degree  of  accuracy.  Pope  was  doubtless  the  great  master  of  what  is 
sometimes  spoken  of  as  artificial  verse,  shaping  the  mould  of  poetic  thought 
for  his  own  and  the  succeeding  generation  ;  but  as  Dryden  stands  in  point 
of  time  nearer  to  the  colossal  name  which  closes  the  first  period  of  English 
song,  he  has  been  chosen  as  a  representative  of  the  second,  in  connection  and 
contrast  with  Burns,  who,  in  his  vigorous  rebound  from  the  measured  pomp 
of  rhymed  heroics  to  the  sturdiest  and  homeliest  Scottish  simplicity,  gave  to 
the  modern  lyric  its  inspiration,  striking  for  the  age  the  musical  pitch  of 
true  and  tender  emotion,  as  decidedly  as  Wordsworth  has  touched  for  it  the 
key-note  of  the  thoughtful  harmonies  of  natural  and  intellectual  beauty. 
Tennyson  undoubtedly  stands  at  the  head  of  all  living  singers,  and  his  name 
might  well  serve  as  the  high-water  mark  of  modern  verse  ;  but  as  our  vol- 
ume gives  a  liberal  space  to  American  authorship,  I  have  ventured  to  let 
the  name  of  the  author  of  "  Evangeline "  represent,  as  it  well  may,  the 
present  poetic  culture  of  our  English-speaking  people  at  home  and  abroad. 

While  l)y  no  means  holding  myself  to  a  strict  responsibility  as  regards  the 
sentiment  and  language  of  the  poems  which  make  up  this  volume,  and  while 
I  must  confess  to  a  large  tolerance  of  personal  individuality  manifesting  it- 
self in  widely  varying  forms  of  expression,  I  have  still  somewhat  scrupu- 
lously endeavored  to  avoid  in  my  selections  everything  which  seemed  liable 
to  the  charge  of  irreverence  or  (j^uestionable  morality.  In  this  respect  the 
poetry  of  the  last  quarter  of  a  century,  with  a  few  exceptions,  has  been  note- 
worthy for  purity  of  thought  and  language,  as  well  as  for  earnestness  and  re- 
ligious feeling.  The  Muse  of  our  time  is  a  free  but  profoundly  reverent 
inquirer  ;  it  is  rarely  found  in  "  the  seat  of  the  scorner."  If  it  does  not 
always  speak  in  the  prescribed  language  of  creed  and  formula,  its  utterances 
often  give  evidence  of  fresh  communion  with  that  Eternal  Spirit  whose 


VI  PREFACE. 

responses  are  never  in  any  age  or  clime  withheld  from  the  devout  ques- 
tioner. 

My  great  effort  has  been  to  make  a  thoroughly  readable  book.  With 
this  in  view  I  have  not  given  tedious  extracts  from  dull  plays  and  weary 
epics,  but  have  gathered  up  the  best  of  the  old  ballads  and  short,  time- 
approved  poems,  and  drawn  largely  from  contemporary  writers  and  the 
waifs  and  estrays  of  unknown  authors.  I  have  also,  as  a  specialty  of  the 
work,  made  a  careful  selection  of  the  best  hymns  in  our  language.  I  am 
prepared  to  find  my  method  open  to  criticism  from  some  quarters,  but  I 
have  catered  not  so  much  for  the  scholarly  few  as  for  the  great  mass  of 
readers  to  whose  "  snatched  leisure  "  my  brief  lyrical  selections  would  seem 
to  have  a  special  adaptation. 

It  only  remains  for  me  to  acknowledge  the  valuable  suggestions  and  aid 
I  have  received  from  various  sources  during  the  preparation  of  this  volume, 
and  especially  the  essential  assistance  I  have  had  from  Lucy  Larcom  of 
Beverly  Farms,  to  whose  services  I  have  before  been  indebted  in  the  com- 
pilation of  "  Child  Life." 

J.  G.  W. 

Amesburt,  9th  mo.,  1875. 


CONTENTS. 


FROM   SHAKESPEARE  TO  MILTON. 


Thought     

Majesty  of  God 

No  Age  content  with  his  own  Estate     .     . 

Pleasure  mixed  with  Pain 

A  Description  of  such  a  one  as  he  would  love 
The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love    .     . 

The  Nymph's  Reply 

The  Pilgrim 

The  Soul's  Errand 

Sonnets 

Lament  for  Astrophel  (Sir  Philip  Sidney) 

Angelic  Ministry 

The  True  Woman 

From  the  Epithalamium 

Una  and  the  Lion 

The  House  of  Riches 

The  Bower  of  Bliss 

Content  and  Rich 

A  Summer's  Day 

The  Soul 

Contentment  

The  Lessons  of  Nature 

To  HIS  MisTiiEss,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia 

The  Good  Man 

Revenge  of  Injuries 

From  an  Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cumber- 
land      

My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is      .... 
Songs : 

Ariel's  Song 

The  Fairy  to  Puck 


Lord  Thomas  Vaux 
Thomas  Sternhold 
H.  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey 
Sir  Thomas  IFyalt 


Christoplier  Marlowe 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh 


Sir  Philip  Sidney 
Matthew  Roydon 
Edmund  Spenser 


Robert  Southwell 
Alexander  Hume 
Sir  John  Davies 
Thomas  Nash . 
William  Drummond 
Sir  Henry  Wotton 


Lady  Elizabeth  Carew 

Samuel  Daniel    '. 
William  Byrd 

William  Shakespeare 


Page 

3 

3 

3 

4 

4 

4 

5 

5 

.') 

6 

7 

7 

7 

8 

8 

9 

9 

10 

10 

11 

12 

12 

13 

13 

13 

14 
15 

16 
16 


Till 


CONTENTS. 


Amiens's  Son& 

A  Sea  Dirge    

HaKK  !   HARK  !   THE   LaRK  !        ... 

Under  the  Grebnwoou-Tree     .     . 

Dirge  for  Fidele     

Sonnets 

The  Noble  Nature 

Song  of  Hesperus 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford   .     . 
The  Sweet  Neglect    ....... 

How  near  to  Good  is  what  is  Fair  ! 
Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H.    .     .     . 

Love  will  find  out  the  Way      .     . 

May-Day  Song 

Begone  Dull  Care  ! 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies     .... 

KoBiN  Goodfellow 

Edom  o'  Gordon 

Take  thy  Auld  Cloak  about  thee  . 
The  Barring  o'  the  Door  .... 
He  that  loves  a  Kosy  Cheek.     .    . 

The  Sirens'  Song 

Song 

Fair  and  Unworthy 

Music 

Good-Morrow 

Search  after  God  

Sic  Vita 

Elegy 

I  'll  never  love  thee  more  .  .  . 
Death  the  Leveller  


William  SJiakespeare 


Ben  Jonson 


Unknown 


Bishop  Richard 
Unknown   . 


Corhett 


Celinda 

Evening  Hymn    .     .     . 

Wishes 

To  Althea 

To  Lucasta  .  .  .  . 
To  Daffodils  .  .  .  , 
To  Blossoms  .  .  .  , 
To  KEEP  A  true  Lent  , 

Virtue   

The  Flower  .  .  .  , 
Kest 


The  Bird 

They  are  all  gone 

For  one  that  hears  himself  much  praised 


Thomas  Carew  . 
Williann  Browne 

Sir  Robert  Ayton . 
William  Strode  . 
Thmnas  Heyivood 

Henry  King    .     . 

it  a 

Marquis  of  Montrose 
James  Shirley 
E.  Herbert  {Earl  of  Cher 
Sir  Thomas  Browne 
Richard  Crashato 
Sir  Richard  Lovelace 


Robert  Herrick 

<(  <( 

George  Herbert 
it  (( 

<(  (( 

Henry  Vaughan 
<(  (( 

George  Witlier 


16 
16 
16 
16 
16 
17 
18 
IS 
19 
19 
19 
19 
19 
20 
20 
20 
21 
22 
24 
24 
25 
25 
25 
26 
26 
26 
26 
27 
28 
28 
28 
ury)  29 
29 
29 
30 
30 
30 
31 
31 
31 
31 
32 
32 
33 
33 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


Companionship  of  the  Muse George  Wither 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden Andrew  Marvell 

The  Bermudas "            " 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity John  Milton    . 

Sonnets : 

On  arriving  at  the  Age  of  twenty-three  "        " 

On  his  Blindness "        " 

Prayer Thomas  Elioood 

Resignation Richard  Baxter 

In  Prison ^.  Sir  Roger  L' Estrange 

Old  Age  and  Death Edmund  Waller 

Of  Myself Abraham  Cowley 

Liberty "           " 


34 
3-4 
35 
35 

38 
38 
39 
39 
39 
40 
40 
41 


FROM  DRYDEN   TO   BURNS. 


Song  for  Saint  Cecilia's  Day, 
Under  Milton's  Picture  .  . 
Character  of  a  Good  Parson  . 

Reason   

Morning  Hymn 

Hymn 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII.  . 
The  Universal  Prayer   .     .     . 

Happiness 

Song 


1687 


The  Painter  who  pleased  Nobody  and  Every- 
body      

Careless  Content   

From  the  "Castle  of  Indolence"   .... 

A  Hymn      

Grongar  Hill     

The  Braes  of  Yarrow 

The  Heavenly  Land 

Ye  Golden  Lamps  of  Heaven,  farewell  !     . 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul 

Love  Divine,  all  Love  excelling    .... 

On  the  Death  of  Dr.  Levett 

The  Schoolmistress 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  . 
Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline 

Ode  to  Evening 

The  Chameleon 

From  "The  Deserted  Village" 


John  Dryden  .     .     . 

.     45 

<(         (< 

.      46 

((         (< 

.     46 

l(                  C( 

.      46 

Thomas  Ken  .     . 

46 

Joseph  Addisoii    .     . 

.     47 

<(            << 

.     47 

Alexander  Pope    .     . 

48 

<<           (( 

.      48 

Allan  Ramsay     .     . 

49 

John  Gay   .... 

.     50 

John  Byrom    .     . 

.     51 

James  Thomson    .     . 

51 

it                 a 

52 

John  Dyer   .... 

54 

William  Hamilton  . 

56 

Isaac  Watts    .     . 

57 

Philip  Doddridge 

58 

Charles  Wesley    .     . 

58 

A  ugustus  M.  Tojilady 

58 

Samuel  Johnson  .     . 

59 

William  Slienstone  .     . 

59 

Thomas  Gray .     .     . 

60 

n                <c 

62 

William  Collins .     .     . 

63 

it                    a 

64 

James  Merrick     .     .     . 

64 

Oliver  Goldsmith .     .     . 

65 

COXTENTS. 


The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray Thomas  Percy      ...  67 

Loss  OF  THE  Royal  George William  Cowper ...  69 

Lines  to  my  Mother's  Picture "           "...  69 

Mysteries  of  Providexce "           "      ...  71 

Tjie  Mariner's  Wife William  Julius  Mickle  71 

The  Hermit James  Beattie  ....  72 

The  Dead John  Langhornc  ...  73 

The  Three  Warnings Mrs.  Thrale    ....  73 

The  Sabbath  of  the  Soul Anna  L.  Barhaidd  .     .  7i 

The  Death  of  the  Virtuous, "               "          .     .  74 

Life "                "          .     .  75 

What  ails  this  Heart  o'  mine  ? Susanna  Blamirc      .     .  75 

To  the  Cuckoo John  Logan     ....  75 

Yarrow  Stream "         "         ....  75 

Bonnie  George  Campbell Unknown 76 

Waly,  waly,  but  love  be  Bonny     ....  "  76 

Lady  Mary  Ann "  77 

The  Boatie  rows "  77 

Glenlogie "  78 

John  Davidson "  78 

Had  I  A  Heart  for  Falsehood  fra:\ied    .     .  Richard  B.  Sheridan     .  79 

The  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella Thomas  Chatterton    .     .  79 

Isaac  Ashford George  Crahhc  ....  80 

A  Wish Samuel  Rogers     ...  81 

Italian  Song "         "         ...  81 

Of  a'  the  Aiuts  the  Wind  can  blaw  .     .     .  Robert  Bm-ns  ....  82 

Mary  Morison "          "      ....  82 

Highland  Mary "          "      ....  82 

To  Mary  in  Heaven "         '*....  83 

A  Vision "          "      ....  83 

A  Bard's  Epitaph "          "      ....  83 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson  .     .  "         "      ....  84 

AuLD  Robin  Gray Lady  Anne  Barnard     .  85 

The  Tiger William  Blake    ...  85 

To  the  Muses "         "       ...  86 

The  Gowan  glitters  on  the  Sward     .     .     .  Joanna  Baillie     ...  86 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal Lady  Caroline  Nairn    .  86 

The  Soldier's  Return Robert  BlooTirficld     .     .  87 

Lament  for  Flodden Jane  Elliott     ....  88 

The  Midges  dance  aboon  the  Burn      .     .     .  Robert  Tannahill      .     .  88 

The  Braes  o'  Balquhither "            "         ...  88 

To  thf.  Lady  Anne  Hamilton William  R.  Spencer      .  89 

The  Dead  who  have  died  in  thf.  Lord    .     .  James  Glassford  ...  89 

Night  and  Death Joseph  BlaiKo  White     .  89 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin John  Leijdcn    ....  90 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


Weitten  after  Eecovery  fkom  a  Dangerous 

Illness Sir  Humphry  Davy 

Cupid  grown  careful George  Croly    .     . 

To  THE  Herb  Rosemary He^iry  Kirke  While 

To  AN  Early  Primrose «'         "          " 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem '•         "         «' 

Lines    written    in    Richmond    Churchyard, 

Yorkshire Herbert  Knowles  . 


90 
91 
92 
92 
93 

93 


FROM  WORDSWORTH  TO   LONGFELLOW, 


Intimations  of  Immortality 

The  Daffodils 

To  the  Cuckoo    

A  Memory 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 

Yarrow  unvisited 

On  a  Picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm  . 

Ode  to  Duty 

To  Sleep     

The  World 

To  THE  River  Duddon 

Young  Lochinvar 

A  Serenade     

Song 

Lay  of  the  Imprisoned  Huntsman  .     .    .    . 

The  Trosachs .     .     . 

Coronach    

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid 

Christmas-Time 

Genevieve 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Cha- 

mouni  

Christabel 

Stanzas  

The  Inchcape  Rock      

Brough  Bells 

The  Housekeeper 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 

Hester 

When  Maggy  gangs  away 

The  Rapture  of  Kilmeny 

Fly  to  the  Desert 

The  Mid  Hour  of  Night 

The  Vale  of  Avoca 


^V^lL' 

Mm  Word 

SWO' 

rth 

97 
99 

100 

100 

100 

101 

101 

102 

103 

103 

103 

Sir  Walter  Scott     .     .     104 

<<         t(        ti 

105 

<(            a            a 

105 

a             t<             11 

105 

6i                i(                << 

105 

t<             <t             i( 

106 

K.            a             a 

107 

a             a             a 

107 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  108 

«           «i           «<          109 

"           "          "           110 

Eobert  Southey 

117 
117 

<<               << 

118 

Charles  Lamb 

120 
120 

t(           It 

120 

James  Hogg  . 

121 
121 

Thomas  Moore 

123 
124 

<< 

(( 

124 

Xll 


CONTENTS. 


0   THOU   WHO   DKY'ST   THE    MoTIRNER's   TeAR 

Thou  art,  0  God  ! 

She  walks  in  Beauty      

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib     .     .     . 

The  Lake  of  Geneva  

Mont  Blanc 

The  Immortal  Mind 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples 

To  a  Skylark      

One  Word  is  too  often  profaned    .     .     . 

The  Eve  of  Saint  Agnes 

The  Common  Lot     ......... 

Forever  avith  the  Lord 

Prayer  

"Whilst  Thee  I  seek 

There  was  Silence  in  Heaven    .... 

To  a  bereaved  Mother 

Lament  

The  Last  Man 

Glenara     

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter  . 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers 

Address  to  an  Egyptian  Mummy      .     .     . 

A  Ghost  at  Noon 

Forest  Worship 

Corn-Law  Hymn 

If   thou   WERT    BY   MY    SiDE 

Not  ours  the  Vows 

An  Angel  in  the  House 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel  .  .  . 
A  Wet  Sheet  and  a  Flowing  Sea  .  .  . 
Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God  .... 
She's  gane  to  dwall  in  Heaven     .     .     . 

The  Evening  Cloud     

From  the  Recesses 

Hymn 

The  Bucket    

After  a  Summer  Shower 

Mariner's  Hymn 

The  Soul's  Defiance 

0,    WHY   SHOULD    THE   SpiRIT   OF    MoRTAL    liE 
PROUD  ? 

The  Jackdaw  of  Rheims 

Mv  Like  is  like  the  Summer  Rose  .  .  . 
The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  .... 


Thomas  Moore    .     .     . 

124 

H                      i< 

124 

George  Gordon  (Lord  By roi 

)    125 

it          it          ti         t( 

125 

t(          <(           i(         (( 

126 

((              ti               a             a 

126 

it              ((               i(             (f 

126 

Percy  Bysslie  Slielley   . 

127 

a               it              it 

127 

<<               ((               (( 

128 

John  Keats    .... 

129 

James  Montgomery .     . 

135 

<<              <( 

135 

<c                      << 

.     136 

ffclcn  Maria  Williams 

.     136 

Unknown 

.     136 

John  Quincy  Adams    . 

.     137 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

.     137 

Thomas  Campbell   .     . 

.     138 

(<              (1 

.     138 

((              <( 

.     139 

Horace  Smith     .     .     . 

.     140 

ti          it 

.     141 

Ebenezer  Elliott  .     .     . 

.     142 

it          it 

.     142 

it          i( 

.     143 

Reginald  Hcher       .     . 

.     143 

Bernard  Barton      .     . 

.     144 

Leigh  Hunt  .... 

.     144 

((         (( 

.     144 

Allan  Cunningham     .     . 

144 

it              (( 

145 

(<              (( 

.     145 

John  Wilson      .     .     . 

146 

Sir  John  Bowring  .     . 

.     146 

((                (C                          it 

.     146 

Samuel  Woodworth     , 

.     147 

Andrews  Norton      .     . 

.     147 

Caroline  Bowles  Southcy 

,     148 

Lavinia  Stoddard  .     . 

148 

William  Knox  .     .     . 

.     149 

Richard  H.  Barham    . 

.     150 

Richard  Henry  Wilde 

1.-2 

CJiarlcs  Wolfe    ...     . 

.     152 

CONTENTS. 


XIU 


d 


Sweet  Home John  Howard  Payne 

The  Childe's  Destiny Felicia  Hcmans  . 

Kindred  Hearts "         " 

Markiage Maria  Brooks     . 

May James  G.  Percival 

To  Seneca  Lake ...<.< 

The  Fall,  of  Niagara John  G.  C.  Brainan 

Epithalamium "        "        " 

The  Memory  of  the  Heart     ....  Daniel  Webster  .     .     . 

The  American  Flag Joseph  Rodman  Drake  . 

Passing  away Johii  Pierpont     .     .     . 

To  CONOllESS "  "         ... 

Jeanie  Morrison William  Motherwell    . 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt Thomas  Hood     .     .     . 

Morning  Meditations "        "         ... 

Song "        "... 

Ruth "        "         ... 

Hymn  of  Nature W.  B.  0.  Peahody  .     . 

I  WOULD  not  live  alway W.  A.  Muhlenberg.     . 

The  Irish  Emigrant Lady  Dufferin    .     .     . 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball Winthrop  M.  Pracd    . 

Love  and  Friendship William  Legcjctt     .     . 

A  Health Edward  Coate  Pinkney 

Burns Fitz-GreeneHalleck 

On  a  Portrait  of  Red  Jacket     ...  "  " 

Sonnet    .     .     . William  Lloyd  Garrison 

Ambition Johii  Neal 

Pilgrim  Song George  Lnnt  . 

The  Family  Meeting Charles  Sprague 

Our  Mary Henry  f^colt  Riddell 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor   ....  Samuel  Ferguson    . 

The  Bells  of  Shan  don Francis  Mahony  {Father  P, 

Unseen  Spirits Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 

FuoM  Melanie "  "  " 

BiNGEN  on  the  Rhine Caroli-ne  Elizabeth  Norton 

The  Sabbath Edward  Lord  Lyttmi    . 

Faith Frances  Anne  Kemble  . 

Hymn John  Sterling 

Labor Frances  S.  Osgood 


The  Present  Heaven  ..    .     , 
To  the  Painted  Columbine, 

Evening  Song      

Morning 

Inward  Music 

0  Saviour  !  whose  Mercy 


Jones  Very 


Thomas  -Miller 
John  KeVe    . 


Sir  Robert  Grant 


mil 


153 
1.53 
154 
154 

155 
155 
155 
156 
156 
156 
157 
158 
159 
160 
160 
161 
161 
162 
162 
163 
163 
165 
165 
165 
166 
163 
163 
168 
169 
169 
170 
f)  171 
172 
172 
173 
174 
175 
175 
175 
176 
176 
177 
177 
178 
178 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


Trust Dean  of  Canterbury     .     . 

A  Petition  to  Time B.W.  Procter  {Barry  Coiiiwall) 

A  PuAYEu  IX  Sickness "  "  " 

TiiE  BnooKsiDE Eichard Monckton  Milnes 

The  Men  of  Old 

The  Palm  and  the  Pine "  "  " 

Tibbie  Inolis Mary  Howitt.     . 

The  Departure  of  the  Swallow      .     .      William  Howitt 

Lucy's  Flittin' William  Laidlaw 

Summer  Days Unknown ,     .     . 

Losses Frances  Broivne . 

We  are  Brethren  a' Robert  Nicoll 

The  Island Richard  U.  Dana 

The  Pirate "       "       " 

The  Si'ectre  Horse "       "       " 

To  A  Waterfowl William  Cullcn  Bryant 

Thanatopsis "  "  " 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers     ....  "  "  " 

To  THE  Fringed  Gentian "  "  " 

The  B.\ttle-Fiei.d 

From  "The  Eivulet" "         "  " 

The  Burial  of  Love 

The  Sleep El izuhcfh Barrett Broiniing 

Bertha  in  the  Lane  .......  "         "  " 

A  Musical  Instrument "         "         " 

Cowper's  Grave 

At  the  Church  Gate 

Mariana 

"Break,  break,  break  ! "     .... 

Memory 

Doubt 

The  Larger  Hope 

Garden  Song  

Bugle  Song    

The  Apology Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

To  Eva  

Thine  Eyes  .still  shone 

Each  and  All     

The  Problem  

Boston  Hymn 

The  Soul's  Prophecy 

The  Bells 

Evelyn  Hope 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 

Tin:  Ldsr  Leader 


William  MakcjKcice  Thack 
Alfred  Tennyson     . 


<< 


Edgar  A.  Foe     . 
Robert  Browning 


cray 


179 

179 
179 
181 
ISO 
180 
181 
182 
182 
183 
184 
184 
185 
186 
185 
187 
187 
188 
189 
189 
190 
190 
190 
191 
193 
194 
195 
195 
196 
196 
197 
197 
198 
199 
199 
199 
200 
200 
200 
201 
202 
202 
203 
204 
207 


CONTENTS. 


XV 


Paul  Revehe's  Ride Henry  JF.  Longfellow 

Maidenhood " 

A  Psalm  of  Life •' 

Resignation <' 

Santa  Filomena " 

Hawthorne " 

To-day  and  To-morrow Gerald  Massey    .     . 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake John  G.   JVhitticr   . 

My  Birthday "  «< 

The  Vanishers "  " 

In  School-Days "  " 

Laus  Deo  ! "  " 

The  Eve  of  Election "  " 

The  Touchstone William  Allingham 

Small  Beginnings Charles  Mackay .     . 

Tubal  Cain "  «       .     . 

The  Living  Temple Oliver  Wendell  Uohncs 

Dorothy  Q "  "  << 

The  Voiceless *'  "  " 

Robinson  of  Leyden ■    "  "  " 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece "  "  " 

The  Chambered  Nautilus •'  '•  " 

Under  the  Violets "  "  " 

The  Heritage Jaw cs  Russell  Lowell 

New  England  Spring "        "  " 

The  Courtin' "        "  " 

Ambrose "         "  " 

After  the  Burial "        "  " 

Commemoration  Ode    .........         "         "  " 

The  Alpine  Sheep Maria  White  Lowell 

Campanile  de  Pisa .'    .     .  Thomas  W.  Parsons 

Ox  A  Bust  of  Dante '.     .     .  "  "• 

Wishing John  G.  Saxe     .     . 

Sleep  and  Death "         "         .     . 

A  still  Day  in  Autumn Sarah  Helen  Whiima 

The  Settler Alfred  B.  Street      . 

Knowing Christopher  P.  Cranch 

Sleepy  Hollow William  E.  Channing 

From  "A  Tribute  to  a  Servant"    .     .     .  Julia  Ward  Hou-e  . 
Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic    ....         "        "        "      . 

Inspiration H.  D.  Thoreau  .     . 

Milton's  Prayer  in  Blindness      ....  Elizabeth  Lloyd  Howel, 

The  Burial  of  Moses C.  F.  Alexander 

Christmas  Hymn E.  H.  Sears  .     . 

The  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Like   .     .  Theodore  Parker 


207 

209 

209 

210 

211 

211 

212 

212 

214 

215 

215 

216 

216 

217 

218 

218 

219 

219 

220 

221 

221 

223 

223 

224 

224 

225 

226 

227 

228 

229 

230 

231 

232 

232 

233 

234 

234 

235 

235 

236 

236 

237 

237 

238 

239 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

The  Will  of  God Frederic  William  Faher  .  239 

The  Right  must  wix "          "            "      .  239 

Seen  and  Unseen David  A.  JVnsson  .    .     .  240 

All's  well "            "...  241 

llOYALTY "             "        ...  241 

The  Kingdom  of  God Eichard  Cheneinx  Trench  241 

The  New  Sinai Arthur  Hugh  Clough  ,     ,  242 

From  the  "Bothie  of  Tobeu-Navuolich  "  "        '<        «<         _    _  243 

The  Stream  of  Life "        "        "         .     .  243 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus "        "        "         .     .  244 

The  Golden  Sunset Samuel  Longfclloic .     .     .  244 

Quiet  from  God Unknown 244 

The  Love  of  God Eliza  Scudder    ....  245 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee Sarah  F.  Adams    ...  245 

My  Times  are  in  Thy  Hand Anna  L.  Waring   .     .     .  246 

Caxa James  Freeman  Clarke     .  246 

The  Inner  Calm Horatius  Bonar ....  247 

The  Master's  Touch "            "     ....  247 

Up  Above W.  Alexander   ....  247 

The  other  World Harriet  Beecher  Stoioc  .     .  248 

0  may  I  join  the  Choir  Invisible  !      .     .  Mrs.  Lewes  {George  Eliot)  248 

The  Three  Fishers Charles  Kingsley     .     .     .  249 

The  Sands  of  Dee "           "            ...  243 

A  Myth "           "            ...  250 

Coming  Home Dinah  Mulock  Craik  .     .  250 

Too  Late "          "          "       .     .  250 

Outward  Bound "          "          "       .     .  250 

Until  Death Unknown 251 

Why  thus  longing  ? Harriet  Winsloio  Scwall .  251 

Woman Coventry  Patmore    .     .     .  252 

The  Chase .  "            "          ...  252 

The  Lover "             "           ...  253 

The  Shepherd-Boy Lctitia  E.  Landon  .     .     .  253 

Death  and  the  Youth "            "        ...  254 

The  Sisters Auhreij  Dc  Vere      .     .     .  254 

Krumley Alice  Carey 254 

The  Sure  AVitness "       "       255 

Her  last  Poem "       "       255 

Field  Preaching Phebc  Carey 256 

Nearer  Home "        " 256 

Peace "         " 257 

Keith  of  Ravelsion Sydney  Dobcll    ....  257 

KvENTiDE Thomas  Burbridge .     .     .  258 

Tiir,  Iconoclast Hose  Terry  Cooke    .     .     .  258 

"It  is  moke  blessed" "         "        "        ...  259 


CONTENTS. 


XVll 


Love 

Indian  Namks 

Eternal  Light   

"Wordsworth 

The  Burial  of  the  Dane    .     ,     .     . 

The  Mountains 

An  Oriental  Idyl 

The  Voyagers     

The  Song  of  the  Camp 

The  Poet  of  To-day 

Lady  Barbara    

The  Terrace  at  Berne  .     .     .    ^     , 

Urania 

The  Last  "Word . 

The  Artist 

Bertha  

The  Upright  Soul 

0  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill  !  .     .     .     . 

Hymn  for  the  Mother 

An  Angel's  "Visit 

After  Death  

Weary 

The  Sunflower 

Vespers 

Charity 

The  Meeting  "Waters 

"When  the  Grass  shall  cover  me    . 

Again 

A  Strip  of  Blue 

By  the  Fireside      . 

Down  the  Slope 

The  two  "Worlds 

Sunlight  and  Starlight      .     .     .     . 
"I  will  abide  in  thine  House" 

Over  the  River      

Judge  not  

Friend  Sorrow 

The  Closing  Scene 

The  High   Tide   on   the   Coast   of 

Lincolnshire    

Seven  Times  Four 

Seven  Times  Seven 

Before  the  Rain     

After  the  Rain 

PiscATAQUA  River    


Anne  C.  {Lynch)  Botta 
Lifdia  H.  Sicjourncy 
William  H.  Furncss 
James  T.  Fields 
Henry  Howard  Broivnell 
Bayard  Taylor  .     . 


S.  J.  Lipjnncott  (G-race 
Alexander  Smith     . 
3Iattlieiu  Arnold 


Robert  Lord  Lytton . 
Anne  Whitney  . 
J.  H.  Perkins    . 
George  Macdonald  . 


Eliza  Sproat  Turner 

Christina  Eossetti    . 
(I  i( 

Dora  Greenicell  . 

Elizabeth  H.  Whitticr 
<<  (( 

Unknown .... 

Lucy  Larcom      .     . 
it  (< 

Charlotte  P.  Hawes 

Uiiknoivn .... 

Adeline  D.  T.   Whitne 
a  (<  (( 

Nancy  A.  W.  Priest 
Adelaide  A.  Procter 


259 
260 
260 
260 
261 
262 
262 
262 
263 

Greenivood)  263 
264 
265 
266 
266 
266 
268 
269 
270 
270 
271 
272 
272 
272 
273 
273 
273 
273 
274 
274 
275 
276 
276 
277 
277 
277 
273 


Tho7nas  Bicchana7i  Read 


Jean  Ivgelow 


Thomas  Bailey  Aid  rich 


279 

230 
282 
232 
233 
383 
283 


XVlll  CONTENTS. 

The  Gkern  G.vome Robert  Buchanan 284 

The  DooiisTEP E.  C.  Stedman 285 

Pan  in  Wall  Stkeet "          "         285 

A  Match Ahjernon  Charles  Swinhumc     .  286 

Never  again II.  H.  Stoddard 287 

Landward "          "         287 

November  . "          "         287 

At  Sea J.  T.  Trowbridge 287 

In  the  Defences E.  A.  Allen  {Floreiux  Percy)  .     .  288 

Our  Heroes Edna  Dean  Proctor 389 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier George  H.  Boker 290 

The  House  in  the  Meadow      .     .     .  Louise  Cliandlcr  Moulton  .     .     .  2C0 

The  Late  Spring "           "            "         ...  291 

In  June Kora  Perry 291 

After  the  Ball "       "       292 

The  Jester's  Sermon G.  JF.  Thornbury 293 

Climbing Annie  Fields 294 

Coronation Helen  Hunt 294 

The  Way  to  sing "        "           295 

The  Sea-Limits Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti .     .     .     .  295 

A  Summer  Day Celia  Thaxter 295 

Submission "        "          296 

March William  Morris 297 

The  Crickets Harriet  McEwen  Kimball     .     .  297 

All's  well "          "            "        ...  298 

The  Survivors Harriet  JF.  Preston     ....  298 

In  the  Sea Hiram  Rich 298 

Concha Francis  Bret  Harte 299 

Dickens  in  Camp "          "      " 30i 

The  Puritan  Lovers Annie  D.  Green  {Marian  Douglas)  302 

Before  the  Gate JFilliam  D.  Howells   .     .     .     .  303 

My  old  Kentucky  Nurse    .     .     .     .     S.  M.  B.  Piatt 303 

The  Old-fashioned  Choir    .     .     .     .     B.  F.  Taylor 304 

Mazzini Laura  C.  Redden 304 

Unawares "            "        305 

A  Woman's  Love John  Hay 305 

On  the  Bridge  of  Sighs      ....  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps     .     .     .  306 

All  the  Rivers "          "          "    ....  306 

White  underneath Rebecca  S.  Palfrey 307 

Listening  for  God JFilliam  C.  GanvM    ....  307 

God  knoweth Unknown 307 

A  Song  of  Trust John  JF.  Chadwick      ....  308 

Pre-existence Paul  H.  Hayne 309 

From  the  Woods "          " 309 


CONTENTS. 


XIX 


Ballad  of  the  Brides  of  Quair.     .     .     . 

Spring  in  Carolina 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore 

Hereafter 

Song 

AZRAEL   

From  "Walker  in  Nicaragua"  .     .     .     . 

Sunrise  in  Venice 

Different  Points  of  View 

Birch  Stream 

Driving  Home  the  Cows 

Waiting 

The  Secret  of  Death 

Fate 

The  Petrified  Fern 

Unseen 

The  Quiet  Meeting 

Midwinter 

Definitions 

Ready    

A  Bird's  Ministry 

What  is  the  Use  ? 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Hymn  to  Christ 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray 

The  Statue     

Waiting 

In  the  Mist 

The  Morning  Street 

Dawn 

The  Sower 

The  Dance     

Come  to  me,  Dearest 

The  Music-Lesson  of  Confucius  .... 

Mine  Own 

Urvasi 

The  Fisherman's  Funeral 

On  recrossing  the  Rocky  Mountains  in 
Winter,  after  many  Years  ...     . 

July  Dawning 

The  Fisherman's  Summons 

Work 

Two  Moods 

Song  of  a  Fellow-Worker 


Isa  Craig  Knox  .  .  . 
Henry  Timrod  .  .  . 
Walter  F.  Mitchell .  . 
Harrut  Prescott  Spofford 


William  Winter 
Joaquin  Miller  , 


Unknown .... 
Anna.  Boynton  Averill 
Kate  Patnam  Osgood 
Lizzie  G.  Parker 
Unknown  .... 
John  A.  Dorgan 
Mary  Bolles  Bi-anch 
Unknown  .... 
Harriet  0.  Nelson   . 
W.  J.  Linton     .     . 


Margaret  J.  Preston 
it  t( 

Erastus  W:  Ellsworth 
Unknown  .... 
Mrs.  Miles  .  .  . 
F.  M.  Finch  .  .  . 
Unknoivn .... 
John  Burroughs 
Sarah  Woolsey  .  . 
John  James  Piatt  . 
Richard  W.  Gilder 

William  Bell  Scott 

Joseph  Brennan  . 

Charles  G.  Leland  . 
<<  (( 

Helen  Barron  Bostwick 
Unknown  .... 


Mary  N.  Prescott    . 
Arthur  ffShaughncssy 


310 

311 

311 

312 

313 

313 

313 

314 

314 

315 

316 

316 

317 

318 

318 

318 

319 

320 

320 

321 

321 

321 

324 

325 

326 

326 

327 

327 

328 

328 

329 

329 

330 

331 

333 

334 

334 

335 
335 
336 
337 
337 
337 


XX  CONTENTS. 

A  Song Mrs.  Knox 338 

A  Cycle C.  Brooke 339 

Italy.     A  Prophecy Archdeacon  Uare    .     .     .  339 

In  Memoriam Unknoim 340 

TiiE  Blackbird Frederick  Tenniison     .     .  340 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 
.  137 

.  245 


ADAMS,  JOHN  QTJINCY. 
Bereaved  Mother,  To  a   . 

ADAMS,   SARAH  F. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH. 

Hymn *' 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII.       .        •         47 

ALDRICH,   THOMAS   BAILEY. 

After  the  Rain ^»'i 

Before  the  Rain ^'^ 

Piscataqua  River -'O'J 


ALEXANDER,  C.   F. 
Burial  of  Moses,  The 


.  237 


ALEXANDER,  W. 

Up  Above ''*' 

ALLEN,  ELIZABETH  AKERS  (FLORENCE 
PERCY). 
In  the  Defences ^oo 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM. 

Touchstone,  The      . 

ARNOLD,   MATTHEW. 

Last  Word,  The   .... 
»  Terrace  at  Berne,  The 
Urania 


217 


.       266 

.  265 

.      263 

AVERILL,  ANNA  BOYNTON. 

Birch  Stream 315 

AYTON,   SIR  ROBERT. 
Fair  and  Unworthy 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA. 

The  Gowan  glitters  on  the  Sward  . 

BARBAULD,  ANNA  L. 

Death  of  the  Virtuous,  The 

Life 

Sabbath  of  the  Soul,  The    . 

BARIIAM,  RICHARD   H. 

Jackdaw  of  Rheims,  The         .        . 

BARNARD,  LADY   ANNE. 

Auld  Robin  Gray     .... 


BARTON,   BERNARD. 
Not  ours  the  Vows 

BAXTER,  RICHARD. 

Resignation 


26 

86 

74 
75 
74 

150 
85 

144 
39 


BEATTIE,  JAMES. 

Hermit,  The t^ 


Page 
BLAKE,  WILLIAM. 

Muses,  To  the 86 

Tiger,  The 85 

BLAMIRE,   SUSANNA. 

What  ails  this  Heart  o'  mine  ?        .        .75 

BLOOMFIELD,  ROBERT. 

Soldier's  Return,  The      .        .        .        .    8( 

BOKER,   GEORGE  H. 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier 290 

BONAR,   HORATIUS. 

Inner  Calm,  The 24 < 

Master's  Touch,  The  ...       247 

BOSTWICK,    HELEN   BARRON. 

Urvasi 334 

BOTTA,  ANNE   C.   (LYNCH). 

Love 259 

BO  WRING,  SIR.  JOHN. 

From  the  Recesses 146 

Hymn 146 

BRAINARD,  JOHN   G.   C. 

Epithalamium 156 

Fall  of  Niagara,  The        .        .        .        .155 

BRANCH,  MARY   B0LLE3. 

Petrified  Fern,  The 318 

BRENNAN,  JOSEPH. 

Come  to  me.  Dearest        ....  330 

BROOKE,   C.  „^ 

Cycle,  A 339 

BROOKS,  MARIA. 

Marriage  .        .        .        •        •        •        •  154 

BROWNE,  FRANCES. 

Losses       .....••  184 

BROWNE,   SIR  THOMAS. 

Evening  Hymn 29 

BROWNE,   WILLIAM. 

Sirens'  Song,  The 25 

Song 25 

BROWNELL,  HENRY  HOWARD. 

Burial  of  the  Dane,  The  .        .        .        .261 

BROWNING,  EIJZABETH  BARRETT. 

Bertha  in  the  Lane      ....       191 

Cowper's  Grave 194 

Musical  Instrument,  A        .        .        .       l-'3 
Sleep,  The 190 


XXll 


LIST   OF   AUTHORS. 


BR0\V\TXO,    ROBERT. 
Kvi'lvii  Hope 
Lost"Leuaer,  The      . 
Kubbi  BfU  Ezra   . 

BRYANT,   WILLIAM  CULLEN. 

B:ittle-FicM,  The      . 

Burial  of  Love,  The 

Death  of  the  Flowers,  The 

FrinncJ  Gentian,  To  the 

Thanatopsis 

"The  Rivulet,"'  From. 

Waterfowl,  To  a       . 

BOCIIANAX,   ROBERT. 

(.ireen  Gnome,  The  .... 

BURNS,   ROBERT. 

BanFs  Epitaph,  A        .         .         .         . 
Elejiv  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson 
Highland  Mar^-    .         .         . 
Mary  in  Heaven,  To         .         .         , 

Mary  Morison 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  can  blaw  . 
Vision,  A 

BURBIDGE,  THOMAS. 

Eventide 


203 
207 
204 

189 
190 
188 
189 
187 
190 
187 


BURROUGHS,  JOHN. 
Waiting  . 


284 

83 
84 
82 
83 
82 
82 
83 

258 

327 


BYRR,   WILLI A:«, 

My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is 

BYROM,  .lOIIN. 
Careless  Content 

C.\MrBELL,  THOMAS. 

Glenara        .... 

L;i.<t  Man.The 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 

CANTERBURY,  DEAN  OP. 

Trust 


.     15 
.     61 


1,33 
133 
139 


CAREW,  LADY  ELT7ABETH. 

Revenge  of  Injuries 

CAREW,   THOMAS. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  Check 

CAREY,   ALICE. 

Her  L"\st  Poem     . 
Kruniley  .... 
.'Jure  Witness,  The 

CAREY,   THERE. 
Field  I'rearhing 
Nearer  Home 
Peace        .... 


.  179 
.  13 
.     25 


.       255 

.  254 

.       255 


CHAnWK'K,   .lOIIN  W. 
Song  of  Trust,  A 

CHANNINO,   WILLIAM  E. 

fleepy  Hollow  . 


(•HATTERTO>-,   THOMAS. 

Minstrer.H  .''ong  in  Ella,  The   . 

CLARKE,  .TAMES   FREEMAN. 
Cana 


256 

256 


308 

235 

79 

246 


CLOUGH,   ARTHUR  HUGH. 

"  Bofhie  of  Tober-Navuolich,"  From  the  243 

NewSinni.  The 242 

Hun  f'ursuni  Ventus    ....        244 
Stream  of  Life,  The  .  .         .243 


COLERIDGE,   SAMUEL   TAYLOR. 

Chn.stabel 110 

Genevieve 1U8 

Hymn   before   Suurise  in   the   Vale  of 
Chamouni 109 

COLLINS,   WILLIAM. 

Dirge  in  ("imbeline 63 

Evening,  Ode  to 64 

COOKE,   ROSE   TERRY 

Iconoclast,  The 258 

"  It  is  more  blessed"'   ....       259 

CORBETT,   BISHOP   RICH.\RD. 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies    ....     20 

COWLEY,   ABRAU.\M. 

Liberty 41 

Of  myself 40 

COWPER,   "iVILLTAM. 

My  Mother's  Picture,  Lines  to    .        .  09 

My.steries  of  Providence  .         .         .  .71 

Royal  George,  Loss  of  the    ...  69 

CRABBE,  GEORGE. 

Isaac  Ashford SO 

CRAIK,  DINAH  MULOCK. 

Coming  Home      .....       2.50 

Outward  Bound 250 

Too  Late 250 

CRANCH,   CHRISTOPHER   P. 

Knowing 234 

CRASHAW,   RICH.UID. 

^Vishes 29 

CROLY,   GEORGE. 

Cupid  grown  careful        .        .        .        .91 

CUNNINGHAM,   ALLAN. 

A  wet  Sheet  and  .a  Howing  Sea  .         .       144 

She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  Heaven  .         .  145 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God  .         .        145 

DANA,  RICHARD   H. 

Island,  The 185 

Pirate,  The 185 

Spectre  Horse,  The 186 

DANIEL,   SAMUEL. 

From  an  Epistle  to  the  Countess  of  Cum- 
berland          14 

DAVIBS,   SIR  JOHN. 

Soul,  The 11 

DAVY,   SIR   inrMPHRY. 

Written  after  Recovery  from  a  Dangerous 
.     Illness 90 

DOBELL,   SYDNEY. 

Keith  of  Ravclston 

DODDRIDGE,    PHILIP. 

Y'e  golden  Lamps  of  Heaven,  farewell '   . 

DORGAN,  JOHN  A. 
Fato  . 


DRAKE,  JOSEPH   RODMAN. 
American  Flag,  The 

DRUMMOND,    WILLIAM 

Lessons  of  Nature,  The   . 

DRYDEN,  JOHN. 

Character  of  a  Good  Par.son     . 
Reason  .... 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687 
Under  Milton's  Picture 


257 

58 

318 

156 

12 

46 
46 
45 
46 


LIST    OF   AUTHORS. 


XX  111 


DUFFERIN,   LADY. 
Irish  Emirgant,  The 

DYER,  JOHN. 
Grongar  Hill    . 


163 

54 

143 
142 
142 


ELLIOTT,   EBENEZER. 
Corn-Law  Hymn 
Forest  Worship    . 
Ghost  at  Noon,  A    . 

ELLIOTT,   JANE. 

Lament  for  Elodden         .        .        .        .88 

ELLSWORTH,   ERASTUS   W. 

What  is  the  Use  ? 321 

ELWOOD,  THOMAS. 
Prayer 

EMERSON,  RALPH   WALDO. 

Apology,  The 199 

Boston  Hymn 
Each  and  All   . 
Problem,  The 
Soul's  Prophecy,  The 
Thine  Eyes  still  shone 


39 


201 
200 
200 
202 

200 


To  Eva :        .  199 

FABER,  FREDERIC   WILLIAM. 

The  Right  must  win     ....       239 
The  Will  of  God 239 

FERGUSON,   SAMUEL. 

Forging  of  the  Anchor,  The    .        .        .  170 

FIELDS,  ANNIE. 

Climbing 294 

FIELDS,  .TAMES  T. 

Wordsworth 260 

FINCH,   F.   M 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The . 

FURNESS,   WILLIAM   H. 

Eternal  Light  .        .        .       '. 


GANNETT,   AVILLIAM   C. 
Listening  for  God     . 


.  326 
.  260 

.  307 

GARRISON,   WILLIAM  LLOYD. 

Sonnet 168 

GAY,  JOHN 

The  Painter  who  pleased  Nobody  and 
Everybody 50 

GILDER,  RICHARD  W. 

Dawn        .......  328 

The  Sower 329 


GLASSFORD,   JAMES. 

The  Dead  who  have  died  in  the  Lord 

GOLDSJIITH,  OLIVER. 

"  The  Deserted  Village,"  From 

GORDON,  GEORGE  (LORD  BYRON). 
Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The 
Immortal  Mind,  The 
Lake  of  Geneva,  The   .        .        .        . 
Mont  Blanc      .         .         .       ». 
She  walks  in  Beauty  .         .        .        . 

GRANT,   SIR  ROBERT. 
0  Saviour  !  whose  mercy 


89 

65 

125 
126 
126 
126 
125 

178 


GRAY,  THOMAS 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard     60 
Ode  on  a  distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  62 

GREEN,  ANNIE  D  (MARIAN  DOUGLAS). 

Puritan  Lovers,  The        ....  302 


Sunflower,  The 

Vespers         .... 

.  272 

.      273 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE. 

Burns 

Red  Jacket,  On  a  Portrait  of 

.  165 
.       166 

HAMILTON,   WILLIAM. 
Braes  of  Yarrow,  The 

.    56 

HARE,   ARCHDEACON. 
Italy.     A  Prophecy 

.  339 

HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET. 

Concha      

Dickens  in  Camp 

.  299 
301 

HAWES,   CHARLOTTE  P. 
Down  the  Slope        .  '      . 

.  276 

HAY,  JOHN. 

Woman's  Love,  A    . 

.  305 

HAYNE,  PAUL  H. 

From  the  Woods  . 
Pre-existence    .... 

.      309 
.  339 

HEBER,   REGINALD. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  Side . 

.  143 

HEMANS,  FELICIA. 

Childe"s  Destiny,  The      . 
Kindred  Hearts    . 

.  1C3 
.       154 

HERBERT,  EDWARD  (EARL   OF 
BURY). 

Celinda 

CIISR- 

.     29 

HERBERT,   GEORGE. 
Flower,  The 

Rest 

Virtue 

31 

.    32 

.        .        31 

HERRICK,  ROBERT. 

Blossoms,  To            ... 
Daffodils,  To         .         .         . 
To  keep  a  True  Lent 

.    31 

30 

.    31 

HEYWOOD,   THOMAS. 

Good-Morrow  .... 
Search  after  God. 

.    26 
26 

HOGG,  JAMES. 

Rapture  of  Kilmeny,  The    . 
When  Maggy  gangs  away 

.       121 
.  121 

HOLMES,  OLWER  WENDELL. 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The    . 
Deacon's  Masterpiece,  The 

Dorothy  Q 

Living  Temple,  The 
Robinson  of  Leyden     . 
Under  the  Violets    . 
Voiceless,  The 

.      223 
.  221 

.       219 
.  219 

.       221 
.  223 

.       220 

HOOD,   THOMAS. 

Morning  Meditations 

Ruth 

Song 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The. 

.  160 

.        161 

.  161 

.       160 

HOWARD,   HENRY,   EARL  OF   SURREY. 
No  Age  content  with  his  own  Estate 

HOWE,   JULIA  WARD. 

"  A  Tribute  to  a  Servant,"  From 
Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic 


HOWELL,  ELIZABETH    IjLOYD. 
Milton's  Prayer  in  Blindness  . 


.  235 
236 

.  237 


XXIV 


LIST   OF  AUTHORS. 


HOAVELLS,  TTnXIAM  D. 

Before  the  Gate 303 

nOWITT,   MARY. 

Tibbie  Inf-Us 181 

HOWITT,   WILLIAM. 

Departure  of  the  Swallow,  The        .        .  182 

HUME,   ALEXANDER. 

Summer's  Day,  A 10 

HUNT,  HELEN. 

t'orouation 294 

M'aj-  to  sing,  The         ....       293 

HUNT,   LEIGH. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel        .       144 
An  Angel  in  the  Uouf  e  ....  144 

rXGELOW,  .IE.\N. 

Uijrh  Ti  'e  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire, 

The 280 

Seven  Times  Four        ....       282 
Seven  Times  ii-even 282 

JOHNSON,   SAMUEL. 

Death  of  Dr.  Levett,  On  the    .        .        .59 

JON?ON,  BEN. 

Eijitapli  on  Elizabeth  L.  11.         .        .  in 

How  near  to  Good  is  what  is  Fair!  .  .     19 

Noble  Nature,  The       ....  IS 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford         .  .     19 

Song  of  Hesperus         ....  18 

Sweet  Neglect,  The 19 

KEATS,   .lOIIN. 

Saint  Agues,  The  Eve  of.        .        •        .129 

KEBLE,  JOHN. 

Inward  Music 1T8 

Morning In 

KEMBLE,  FRANCES   ANNTl. 

Faith 175 

KEN.    THOMAS. 

Morning  Hymn 46 

KLMBALL,  HARRIET  McEWEN. 

All  "s  Well 298 

Crickets,  The 297 

KING,  HENRY. 

Elegy 28 

Sic  Vita 27 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES. 

Myth,  A 250 

Sands  of  Dee,  The         ....       249 
Three  Fishers,  The 249 

KNOWLE.*,   IIERBKRT 

Lilies  written  in  Richmond  Churchyard, 
Yorkshire 93 

KNOX,  ISA    CRAIG. 

Brides  of  Quair,  The  Ballad  of  the  .        .  310 

KNOX,   MRS. 

Song,  A 338 

KNOX,   WILLIAM. 

O,  why  should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be 
proud? 149 

LAIDLAW,    WILLIAM. 

Lucy  's  Flittiu" 182 


LAMB,   CHARLES. 

Hester 

Housekeeper,  The    . 

Old  Familiar  Faces,  The      . 

LANDON,  LETITIA   E. 
Death  and  the  Youth  . 
Shepherd-Boy,  The .        . 

LANDOR,   WALTER  SAVAGE. 
Lament 

LANGHORNE,  JOHN. 

Dead,  The        .... 

LARCOM,   LUCY. 

By  the  Fireside    ... 
Strip  of  Blue,  A       .        •        . 

LEGGETT,   WILLIAM. 

Love  and  Friendship        . 

LELAND,  CHARLES   G. 

Mine  Own    .... 
The  Music-Lesson  of  Confucius 

L'ESTRANGE,  SIR  ROGER. 
In  Prison         .... 


LEWES  MRS.   (GEORGE  ELIOT). 
O  may  1  join  the  Choir  invisible !    . 

LEYDEN,  JOHN. 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin    . 

LINTON,  W.  J. 

Definitions 

Midwinter 

LIPPINCOTT,  SARA  J.  (GRACE  GREEN- 
WOOD). 
Poetof  To-day,  The 

LOGAN,   JOHN. 

Cuckoo,  To  the       .... 
Y'arrow  Stream    .... 

LONGFELLOW,   HENRY  W. 

Hawthorne 

Maidenhood  .... 

Paul  Kevere's  Ride  .... 
Psalm  of  Life,  A  . 

Resignation      ..... 
Santa  Filomena   .... 


LONGFELLOW,   SAMUEL. 
Golden  Sunset,  Tlie 

LOVELACE,   SIR  RICHARD 

Althea,To 
Lucasta,  To 


LO^VELL,   JAMES  RUSSELL 
After  the  Burial 
AmI)rose 

Commemoration  Ode 
Courtin",  The 
Heritage,  The  . 
New  England  Spring    . 

LOWELL,  MARIA   WHITE 
Alpine  Sheep,  The  . 

LUNT,   GEORGE. 
Pilgrim  Song    . 

LYTTOX,   EDWARD  LORD 
Sabbath,  The  . 

LYTTOX,   ROBERT   LORD. 

Artist,  The 


120 
120 
120 

254 
253 

137 

73 

275 
274 

165 

.s;i3 

331 

39 

248 

.    90 

320 
320 

263 

75 
75 

211 

209 
£07 
£09 
210 
211 

244 

80 
30 

227 

226 
228 
2i5 
'.24 
2L4 

229 

168 

174 

266 


LIST    OF    AUTHOES. 


XXV 


MACDOXAIiD,   GEORGE. 
Ilyiuu  for  t'je  Mother  . 
0  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill  I 

MACKAY,   CHARLES. 

femall  BcRinnings     . 
Tubal  Caia  . 


270 
270 


MAHONY,  FRANCIS   (PATHER  PROUT). 
Bellsof  Shandon,  Tlie     .        .        .        . 

MARLOWE,   CHRISTOPHER. 

Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love,  The    . 

MARVELL,  ANDREW. 

Bermudas,  The 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden     . 

MASSEY,   GERALD. 

To-day  and  To-morrow    . 


218 

218 

171 


MERRICK,  JAMES. 
Chameleon,  The 

MICKLE,  WILLIAM  JULIUS. 
Mariner's  Wife,  The 

MILES,   MRS. 

Hymn  to  Christ 


MILLER,  JOAQUIN. 
Sunrise  in  A'enice 
"  Walker  in  Nicaragua,"  From 

MILLER,  THOMAS. 

Evening  Song  .... 

MTLNES,  RICHARD    MONCKTON  (I. 
HOUGHTON). 
Brookside,  The 

Men  of  Old,  The  .... 
Palm  and  the  Pine,  The 

MILTON,   JOHN. 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity    . 
Sonnets        .        .        .        .        ■ 


MITCHELL,  WALTER  F. 
Tacking  Ship  off  Shore    . 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES. 
Common  Lot,  Tlie  . 
Forever  with  tlie  Lord 
Prayer      

MONTROSE,  MARQUIS   OF. 
I  '11  never  love  thee  more 

MOORE,  THOMAS. 

Fly  to  the  Desert     .         .         . 
Mid  Hour  of  Night,  The      . 

0  Thou  who  dry'st  the  Mourner's  Tear . 
Vale  of  Avoca,  The       .... 
Thou  art,  0  God!    . 

MORRIS,   WILLIAM. 
March      ... 

MOTHERWELL,  WILLIAM. 

Jeanie  Morrison 

MOULTON,  LOUISE  CIMNDLER. 
House  in  the  Meadow,  The 
Late  Spring,  The 

MUHLENBERG,   AV.   A. 

1  would  not  live  alway     .         . 

NAIRN,  LADY   CAROLINE. 
Land  o'  the  Leal,  The 

NASH,   THOMAS. 

Contentment   .... 


35 

34 

212 
64 
71 

325 

314 
313 

177 


ORD 


180 
180 
181 

35 

38 


311 

135 
135 
133 

28 

123 
124 
124 
124 
.  124 

297 

,  159 

.  290 
291 

,  162 

.    86 

,    12 


NEAL,   JOHN. 

Ambition 168 

NELSON,   HARRIET   0. 

Quiet  Meeting,  The         ....  319 

NICOLL,   ROBERT. 

We  are  Brethren  a' 184 

NORTON,   ANDREWS. 

After  a  Summer  Shower ....  147 

NORTON,   CAROLINE  ELIZABETH. 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine        ....  173 

OSGOOD,  FRANCES  S. 

Labor 175 

OSGOOD,  KATE   PUTNAM. 

Driving  Home  the  Cows  ....  316 

O'SHAUGHNESSY,   ARTHUR. 

Song  of  a  Fellow- Worker  .         .        .  337 

PALFREY,  REBECCA   S. 

White  Underneath 307 

PARKER,  LIZZIE  G. 

Waiting 316 

PARKER,  THEODORE. 

The  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life  .        .  239 

PARSONS,   THOMAS  W. 

Campanile  de  Pisa 230 

On  a  Bust  of  Dante      ....       23L 

PATMORE,   COVENTRY. 

Chase,  The 252 

Lover,  The 253 

Woman 252 

PAYNE,   JOHN  HOWARD. 

Sweet  Home 153 

PEABODY,   W.    B.   O. 

Hymn  of  Nature 162 

PERCIVAL,  JAMES   G. 

May 155 

Seneca  Lake,  To  .        .        .        .        .       155 

PERCY,   THOMAS. 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray,  The       .        .        .67 

PERKINS,  J.   H. 

Upright  Soul,  The 269 

PERRY,   NORA. 

After  the  Ball 292 

In  June 291 

PHELPS,  ELIZABETH   STUART. 

All  the  Rivers 306 

On  the  Bridge  of  Sighs    .        .        .        .306 

PIATT,   JOHN   JAMES. 

The  Morning  Street        .        .        .        .328 

PIATT,   S.   M.   B. 

My  Old  Kentucky  Nurse         .        .        .303 

PIERPONT,   JOHN. 

Congress,  To 158 

Passing  Away 157 

PINKNEY,   EDWARD  COATE. 

Health,  A 165 

POE,   EDGAR  A. 

Bells,  The 202 

POPE,   ALEXANDER. 

Happiness     ......         48 

Universal  Prayer,  The     .        .        .        .48 


XXVI 


LIST    OF    AUTHORS. 


PRAED,  WTN-TimOP  MACKWORTH. 

Belle  of  the  Ball,  The      .        .        .        .163 

PRESCOTT,  MARY  N. 

Two  Moods 337 

Work 337 

PRESTOX,   HARRIET   W. 

Survivors,  The 298 

PRESTON,  MARGARET  J. 

Ready      

Bird's  Ministry,  A        .        .        . 


PRIEST,  NANCY   A.   W. 
Over  the  River 

PROCTER,   ADELAIDE   A. 
Friend  Sorrow 
Judse  Not 


321 

334 

277 

278 
.  278 


PROCTER,    BRYAN    AVALLER    (BARRY 
CORNWALL). 
Petition  to  Time,  A  .... 

Prayer  in  Sickness,  A  . 

PROCTOR,  EDNA  DEAN. 

Our  Ueroes 


179 
179 

289 


RALEIGH,   SIR  WALTER. 

Nvniph's  Rcplv,  The      ....  5 

Pilgrim,  The  " 5 

Soul's  Errand,  The        ....  5 

RAMSAY,   ALLAN. 

Song 49 

■READ,   THOMAS  BUCHANAN. 

Closing  Scene,  The 279 

REDDEN,  LAURA   C. 

Mazzini 304 


Unawares      . 

RICH,  HIR.OI. 
In  the  Sea 


RIDDELL,  HENHY  SCOTT. 
Our  ^lary 

ROGERS,   SAMUEL. 

Italian  Song        .        . 
Wish,  A   .        .        . 


ROSSETTI,   DANTE  GABRIEL. 
Sea-Limits,  The 

ROSSETTI,   CHRISTINA. 
After  Death      ... 
Weary 


272 
272 


ROYDON,   MATTHR"'. 

Lament  for  Astrophel  (Sir  Philip  Sidney)      7 


SAXE,  .TOHN   G. 

Sleep  and  Death  .... 
Wishing  ...... 

SCOTT,   SIR   WALTER. 

Christmas-Time        .         .         .         . 

Coronach 

Hebrew  Mnid,  Hymn  of  the    . 
Imprisoned  Huntsman,  Lay  of  the 
Serenade,  A 


SCUDDER,   ELIZA. 

Love  of  God,  The     . 

SEARS,  E.  II. 

Christmas  Hymn 

SEWALL,  HARRIET  WINSLOW. 

Why  thus  longing  ?  . 


SHAKESPEARE, 

Songs 
Sonnets 


WILLIAM. 


305 

298 

169 

81 
81 

295 


SHELLEY,   PERCY  BYSSHE. 

One  Word  is  too  often  profaned  . 

Skylark,  To  a 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples 

SHENSTONE,  WILLIAM. 

Schoolmistress,  The         .... 

SHERIDAN,   RICHARD  BRTNSLEY. 
Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  framed 

SHIRLEY,   JAMES 

Death  the  Leveller 

SIDNEY,   SIR  PHILIP. 

Sonnets 

SIGOURNEY.  LYDIA  H. 

Indian  Names 

SMITH,   ALEXANDER. 

Lady  Barbara  

SMITH,   HORACE. 

Egyptian  Mummy,  Address  to  an 
Hymn  to  the  Flowers      .        .        .        . 

SOUTHEY,   CAROLINE  BOWLES. 

Mariner's  Hymn 

SOUTIIEY,  ROBERT. 

Brough  Bells 

Inchcape  Rock,  The    .... 
Stanzas    ....... 


SOUTHWELL,  ROBERT. 
Content  and  Rich    . 


245 

238 

251 

16 
17 

128 
127 
127 

59 

79 

28 

6 

260 

264 

141 

140 

148 

118 
117 
117 

10 


Pong     .... 
Trosachs,  The. 
Young  Lochinvar 

SCOTT,   WILLIAM   BELL. 
Dance,  The 


232 
.  2.32 

.  107 

lor, 
.  107 

105 
.  1(15 

105 
.  105 

104 


.329 


SPENCER,   WILLIAM    R. 

Lady  Anne  Hamilton,  To  the 

SPENSER,  EDMUND. 

Angelic  Ministry     .        .        .         , 

Bower  of  Bliss,  The 

"  The  Epithalaniiiiiii,"  From  . 

House  of  Riches,  The  . 

True  Woman,  The  . 

Una  and  the  Lion 

SPOFFORD,   H.VRRIET    PRESCOTT. 

Hereafter 

Song 

SPRAGUE,   CH.\RLES. 
I  Family  Meeting,  The 

I  STEDMAN,  F.    C. 

I  Doorstep,  The  .... 

I  Pan  in  Wall  Street      . 

j  STERLING,  JOHN. 

Hymn 


312 
313 


1C9 


285 

2S5 


.STERNHOLD,   THOMAS. 

Majesty  of  God 

STODDARD,   LAVINIA. 
The  Soul's  Defiance 


175 

3 

148 


LIST   OF   AUTHORS. 


XX  vn 


STODDARD,   R.   H. 
Landward    . 
Never  Again     . 
November     . 


STREET,   ALFRED   B. 

Settler,  The      . 


STRODE,   WILLIAM. 
Music 


STOWE,   HARRIET   BEECHER. 
Other  World,  The     . 

SWINBURNE,   ALGERNON   CHARLES 
Match,  A  .... 

TANNAIIILL,   ROBERT. 

Braes  o'  Balquhither,  The 

Midges  dauce  aboon  the  Burn,  The 

TAYLOR,   BAYARD. 

Mountains,  Tlie   .... 
Oriental  Idyl,  An     .         .         . 
Song  of  the  Camp,  The 
Voyagers,  The 


TAYLOR,   B.   F. 

Old  fashioned  Choir,  The 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED. 

"  Break,  break,  break  1  " 

Bugle  Song 

Doubt  .... 

Garden  Song    . 

Larger  Hope,  The 

Mariana    .... 

Memory 


From 


TENNYSON,   FREDERICK. 
Blackbird,  The 

THACKERAY,   WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE. 

At  the  Church  Gate 

THAXTER,   CELIA. 
Submission  . 
Summer  Day,  A 

THOMSON,   JAMES 

"  The  Castle  of  Indolence, 
Hymn,  A 

THOREAU.   H.    D. 

Inspiration       .... 

THORNBURY,   G.   W. 
Jester's  Sermon,  The 

THRALE,   MRS. 

Three  Warnings,  Tho 

TIMROD,  HENRY. 

Spring  in  Carolina  . 

TOPLADY,   AUGUSTUS   M. 

Love  divine,  all  Love  excelling 

TRENCH.   RICHARD  CHENEVIX. 

Kingdom  of  God,  The 

TROWBRIDGE,  J.   T. 

At  Sea 


TURNER,   ELIZA   SPROAT. 

Angel's  "Visit,  An     . 

UNKNOWN. 

Abraliam  Lincoln    . 
Again  .... 
Barring  o'  the  Door,  The 
Begone  dull  Care  1 


287 
287 
287 

234 

26 

248 

283 

88 
88 

262 
262 
263 
262 

,  304 

198 
199 
197 

,  198 
197 

,  195 
19J 

340  I 

195  j 

296 
.  295 

,    51 
52 

.  286 

.  293 

.    73 

.  311 

.    58 

.  241 

.  287 

.  271 

.  324 

274 

.     24 

20 


UNKNOWN. 

Boatie  rows,  The 

Bonnie  George  Campbell     . 

Different  Points  of  View  . 

Edom  o'  Gordon 

Fisherman's  Funeral,  The 

Fisherman's  Summons,  The 

Glenlogie 

God  knoweth 

In  Memoriam  . 

John  Davidson     . 

July  dawning  . 

Lady  Mary  Ann   . 

Love  will  find  out  the  Way 

May-Day  Song     .... 

On  recrossing  the  Rocky  Mountain, 

Winter,  after  many  Years    . 
Quiet  from  God    . 
Robin  Goodfellow    . 
Secret  of  Death,  The   . 
Statue,  The      .... 
Summer  Days 

Take  thy  auld  Cloak  about  thee 
There  was  Silence  in  Heaven 
Two  Worlds,  The     . 
Unseen  .... 

Until  Death     .... 
Waly,  waly,  but  Love  be  bonny 
When  the  Grass  shall  cover  me 

VAUGHAN,  HENRY. 

Bird,  The         .... 
They  are  all  gone 

VAUX,   LORD   THOMAS. 

Thought         .... 

VERE,   AUBREY  DE. 

Sisters,  The 


VERY,  JONES. 

Painted  Columbine,  To  the 
Present  Heaven,  The 

WALLER,  EDMUND. 

Old  Age  and  Death  . 

WARING,   ANNA   L. 

My  Times  are  in  Thy  Hand 

WASSON,  DAVID  A. 

All 's  Well    .... 
Royalty     .... 
Seen  and  Unseen . 


WATTS,  ISAAC. 

Heavenly  Land,  The 

WEBSTER,  DANIEL. 

Memory  of  the  Heart,  The 

WESLEY,   CHARLES. 

Je.sus,  Lover  of  my  Soul . 

WHITE,  HENRY  KIRKE. 
Early  Primrose,  To  an 
Herb  Rosemary,  To  the  . 
Star  of  Bethlehem,  The 

WHITE,   JOSEPH  BLANCO. 

Night  and  Death 


WHITMAN,   SARAH  HELEN. 

A  Still" Day  in  Autumn    . 

WHITNEY,   ADELINE   D.   T 
"  I  will  abide  in  tliine  House 
Sunlight  and  Starliglit     . 


77 

76 

314 

22 

,334 

33;3 

78 

307 

340 

78 

335 

77 

19 

20 

335 
244 

21 
317 
32:3 
183 

24 
135 
276 
318 
251 

76 
273 


32 
33 


.  254 

.      176 
.  176 

.    40 

.  246 

.      241 

.  241 

.       240 


.    57 
.  156 

.    58 

92 

.    92 

93 


.    89 

.233 

277 
.  277 


XXVlll 


LIST   OF  AUTHORS. 


WUITNEY,  ANNE. 
Bertha      . 


■\V1IITTIER,  ELIZABETH  H. 

Charity 

Meeting  Waters,  The  . 

WIIITTIEIl,  JOHN   G. 
Etc  of  Election,  The    . 
Grave  by  the  l.ake,  The  . 
In  School-Days    .... 
Laus  Deo  1        .        .        .        . 
My  Birthday         .... 
The  Aanishers .... 

WILDE,   RICUAIID  HENRY. 

My  life  is  hke  the  Summer  Rose 

■WaLLIAMS,   HELEN   MARIA. 
Whilst  Thee  I  seek  . 

WILLIS,   NATHANIEL  PARKER. 
"  Molauie,"  From 
Unseen  Spirits 

WILSON,    JOHN. 

Evening  Cloud,  The 

WINTER,   WILLIAM. 

A'/rael       .         .         .        .        • 

WITHER,   GEORGE. 

Conipanionshi])  of  the  Muse    . 
For  one  that  hears  huuself  much 


.  268 

.  273 
273 

216 
.  212 

215 
.  216 

2U 
.  215 

.  152 

.  136 

172 
.  172 

.  146 

.  313 


.    34 
praised   33 


WOLFE,   CHARLES. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The 

WOODWORTH,   SAMUEL. 

Bucket,  The     .        .        .        • 

WOOLSEY,   SARAH. 

In  the  Mist      .        .        .        • 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM. 

Cuckoo,  To  the    .        .        .        • 
Daffodils,  The  .... 
Intimations  of  Immortality 

Memory,  A 1*-'*^ 

Ode  to  Duty 1"'-^ 

Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm,  On  a  Picture  of  101 


.  152 
.  147 
..327 


100 
99 
97 


River  Duddon,  To  the 
She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 
Sleep,  To      ...        . 
World,  The      .... 
Yarrow  Unvisited        .        • 


103 
100 
103 
103 
101 


WOTTON,   SIR  HENRY. 

Good  Man,  The 

To  his  Mistress,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia 

WYATT,   SIR  THOMAS. 

A  Description  of  such  a  one  as  he  would 

love       .        •        •       _•        • 
Pleasure  mixed  with  Pain  .        .        • 


13 
13 


4 
4 


FROM   SHAKESPEARE  TO  MILTON. 


From  Shakespeare  to  Milton. 


-ooJ^^OO- 


LOED  THOMAS  VAUX. 

[1510-1557.] 

THOUGHT. 

When  all  is  done  and  said, 

In  the  end  this  shall  you  find  : 
He  most  of  all  doth  bathe  in  bliss 

That  hath  a  quiet  mind ; 
And,  clear  from  worldly  cares, 

To  deem  can  be  content 
The  sweetest  time  in  all  his  life 

In  thinking  to  be  spent. 

The  body  subject  is 

To  tickle  Fortune's  power. 
And  to  a  million  of  mishaps 

Is  casual  every  hour ; 
And  Death  in  time  doth  change 

It  to  a  clod  of  clay  ; 
When  as  the  mind,  which  is  divine, 

Runs  never  to  decay. 

Companion  none  is  like 

Unto  the  mind  alone, 
For  many  have  been  harmed  by  speech,  — 

Through  thinking,  few,  or  none. 
Fear  oftentimes  restraineth  words. 

But  makes  not  thoughts  to  cease ; 
And  he  sj)eaks  best,  that  hath  the  skill 

When  for  to  hold  his  peace. 

Our  wealth  leaves  us  at  death, 

Our  kinsmen  at  the  grave  : 
B)it  yirtues  of  the  mind  unto 

The  heavens  with  us  we  have  ; 
Wherefore,  for  virtue's  sake, 

I  can  be  well  content 
The  sweetest  time  of  all  my  life 

To  deem  in  thinkiug  spent. 


THOMAS  STERNHOLD. 

[Died  IS49-1 
MAJESTY  OF  GOD. 

The  Lord  descended  from  above, 
And  bowed  the  heavens  most  high, 

And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky. 

On  cherubim  and  seraphim 

Full  royally  he  rode. 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 

Came  flying  all  abroad. 


He  sat  serene  upon  the  floods. 
Their  fury  to  restrain  ; 

And  he 

For  evermore  shall  reign 


as  sovereign  Lord  and  King, 


HENRY 


EARL  OF 


HOWARD, 
SURREY. 

[I5IS-IS47-] 


NO    AGE    CONTENT    WITH    HIS    OWN 
ESTATE. 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed. 

In  study  as  I  were, 
I  saw  within  my  troubled  head 

A  heap  of  thoughts  appear. 

And  every  thought  did  show 

So  lively  in  mine  eyes. 
That  now  I  sighed,  and  then  I  smiled, 

As  cause  of  thoughts  did  rise. 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


I  saw  the  little  boy, 

111  thouglit  liow  oft  that  he 
Did  wisli  of  God,  to  scape  the  rod, 

A  tall  young  man  to  be. 

The  young  man  eke  that  feels 
His  bones  with  pains  o]iprest. 

How  he  would  be  a  rich  old  man, 
To  live  and  lie  at  rest : 

The  rich  old  man  that  sees 

His  end  draw  on  so  sore. 
How  he  would  be  a  boy  again, 

To  live  so  much  the  more. 

Whereat  full  oft  I  smiled. 

To  see  how  all  these  three, 
From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy. 

Would  chop  and  change  degree  : 

And  musing  thus,  I  think. 

The  case  is  very  strange. 
That  man  from  wealth,  to  live  in  woe, 

Doth  ever  seek  to  change. 

Thus  thoughtful  as  I  lay, 

I  saw  my  withered  skin. 
How  it  doth  show  my  dented  thews. 

The  tlesh  was  worn  so  thin ; 

And  eke  my  toothless  chaps. 

The  gates  of  my  right  way. 
That  opes  and  shuts  as  I  do  speak, 

Do  thus  unto  me  say  : 

"  The  white  and  hoarish  hairs. 

The  messengers  of  age. 
That  show,  like  lines  of  true  belief, 

That  this  life  doth  assuage; 

"  Bid  thee  lay  hand,  and  feel 

Them  hanging  on  my  chin. 
The  which  do  write  two  ages  past. 

The  third  now  coming  in. 

"  Hang  up,  therefore,  the  bit 
Of  tliy  young  wanton  time; 

And  thou  that  tlierein  beaten  art. 
The  happiest  life  define." 

Whereat  I  sighed,  and  said, 

"  Farewell  my  wonted  joy  ! 
Truss  u])  thy  i>a<k,  and  trudge  from  me, 

To  every  little  boy  ; 

"  And  tell  them  thus  from  me. 

Their  time  most  happy  is, 
If  to  their  time  they  reason  had. 

To  know  the  truth  of  this." 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT. 
[1503  - 1542-] 

PLEASURE  MIXED  WITH  PAIN. 

Venomov's  thorns  that  are  so  sharp  and 
keen 
Bear    flowers,   we  see,  full  fresh   and 
fair  of  hue  : 
Poison  is  also  put  in  medicine, 

And  unto  man   his   health   doth   oft 
renew. 
The  fire  that  all  things  eke  consumeth 
clean. 
May  hurt  and  heal :  then  if  that  this 
be  true, 
I  trust  some  time  my  harm  may  be  my 

health. 
Since   every   woe   is  joined  with   some 
wealth. 


A  DESCRIPTION  OF   SUCH  A  ONE  AS 
HE  WOULD  LOVE. 

A  FACE  that  should  content  me  wondrous 

well, 
Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold 
With  gladsome  cheer,  all  grief  for  to  ex- 

With  sober  looks   so  would   I   that  it 

should 
Speak   without   words,    such   words    as 

none  can  tell ; 
The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 
With    wit    and  these,   might    chance  I 

might  be  tied, 
And  knit  again  with  knot  that  should 

not  slide. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

[1564- 1593.] 

THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS 
LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 
And  we  will  all  the  jileasures  juove, 
That  valleys,  groves,  and  hills  and  fields, 
Wood  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  Vc  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 


SIR   WALTER   RALEIGH. 


By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  mailrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  }(osies  ; 
A  cap  of  Howers  and  a  kirtle. 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool. 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 
fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold. 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
AVith  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The    shepherd   swains   shall  dance  and 

sing, 
For  thy  delight,  each  May-morning: 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move. 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

[1552-1618.] 

THE  NYMPH'S  REPLY. 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young. 
And  truth  in  eveiy  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
Wlien  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold; 
And  Philomel  beeometh  dumb. 
The  rest  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  tliy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten. 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs,  — 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 


But  could  j'outh  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need. 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 


THE  PILGRIM. 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet, 
My  statt"  of  faith  to  walk  upon ; 
My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet; 
My  bottle  of  salvation  ; 
M}'  gown  of  glory  (hope's  true  gauge), 
And  thus  I  '11  take  my  pilgrimage. 
i^)lood  must  be  my  body's  'balmer, 
Whilst  my  soul,  a  quiet  Palmer, 
Travelleth  towards  the  land  of  Heaven; 
No  other  balm  will  there  be  given. 
Over  the  silver  mountains. 
Where  .spring  the  nectar  fountains, 
There  will  I  kiss  the  bowl  of  bliss, 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill 
Upon  every  milken  hill ; 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before. 
But  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 
Then,  by  that  happy,  blissful  day. 

More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see. 
That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay, 

And  walk  apparelled  fresh,  like  me. 


THE  SOUL'S  ERRAND. 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest. 

Upon  a  thankless  errand  ! 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best. 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant : 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die. 
And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows. 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood ; 
Go,  tell  the  church  it  shows 

What 's  good,  and  doth  no  good  : 
If  church  and  court  reply. 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates  they  live 

Acting  by  others'  actions ; 
Not  loved  unless  they  give. 

Not  strong  but  by  their  factions; 
If  potentates  reply. 
Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 
That  rule  affairs  of  state, 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Their  purpose  is  ambition, 
Their  prai'tiee  only  hate  : 
And  if  they  once  reply, 
Then  give  thein  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  Lrave  it  most, 

They  beg  ibr  more  by  spending, 
W  ho  in  their  greatest  cost. 

Seek  nothing  but  commending : 
iVnd  it'  they  make  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion, 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust, 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion, 
Tell  Hesh  it  is  but  dust : 
And  wish  them  not  reply. 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth. 

Tell  honor  how  it  alters, 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth, 
Tell  favor  how  she  falters  : 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness ; 
Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness : 
And  when  they  do  reply. 
Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness, 
Tell  skill  it  is  pretension. 
Tell  charity  of  coldness, 
Tell  law' it  is  contention  : 
And  as  they  do  reply. 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness, 

Tell  natuie  of  decay, 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness, 
Tell  justice  of  delay  : 
And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness. 

But  vary  in'  esteeming; 
Tell  schools  tiipy  want  profoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming : 
If  arts  and  schools  rej)ly. 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it 's  ncd  the  city  ; 
Tell  how  the  country  erreth ; 


Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  jiity ; 
Tell,  virtue  least  preferreth  : 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Coinnjandcd  thee,  done  blabbing, 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabliing, 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDXEY. 

[1554-1586.] 

SONNETS. 

With   how   sad   steps,   0   Moon  !  thou 

climb' st  the  skies, 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 
What  may  it  be,  that  even  in  heavenly 

place 
That  busy  Archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ? 
Sure,  if  that  long  with  love  acquainted 

eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's 

case ; 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks,  thy  languished  grace 
To  me  that  feel  the  like  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want 

of  wit  ? 
Are  beauties  thereasproud  ashcre  they  be  ? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth 

possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  ? 


Come,  Sleep,  0  Sleep,  the  certain  knot 

of  peace. 
The  baiting-jdace  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor   man's  wealth,   the   prisoner's 

release. 
The  indilfcrent  judge  between  the  high 

and  low. 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out 

the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts,  Despair  at  me  doth 

throw ; 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease! 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 


MATTHEW   KOYDON.  —  EDMUND    SPENSEK, 


Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest 

bed; 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to 

light ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in 

me 
Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see. 


-♦ — • 


MATTHEW  PtOYDON. 

LAMENT  FOR  ASTROPHEL  (SIR  PHILIP 
SIDNEY). 

You  knew,  —  who  knew  not  Astrophel  ? 

That  I  should  live  to  say  I  knew, 
And  have  not  in  possession  still !  — 
Things  known  permit  me  to  renew. 
Of  him  you  know  his  merit  such 
I  cannot  say  —  you  hear — too  much. 

Within  these  woods  of  Arcady 

He  chief  delight  and  pleasure  took ; 
And  on  the  mountain  Partheny, 
Upon  the  crystal  liquid  brook, 
The  muses  met  him  every  day,  — 
Taught  him  to  sing,  and  write,  and 
say. 

When  he  descended  down  the  mount 
His  personage  seemed  most  divine; 
A  thousand  graces  one  might  count 
Upon  his  lovely,  cheerful  eyne. 

To  hear  him  speak,   and   see   him 

smile. 
You  were  in  Paradise  the  while, 

A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  grace  ; 

A  full  assurance  given  by  looks ; 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face  ; 

The  lineaments  of  gospel  books  : 
I  trow  that  countenance  cannot  lie 
AVhose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eye. 

Above  all  others  this  is  he 

Who  erst  approved  in  his  song, 
That  love  and  lionor  might  agree, 
And  that  pure  love  will  do  no  wrong. 
Sweet  saints,  it  is  no  sin  or  blame 
To  love  a  man  of  virtuous  name. 

Did  never  love  so  sweetly  breathe 
In  any  mortal  breast  before ; 


Did  never  muse  inspire  beneath 
A  poet's  brain  with  finer  store. 

He  wrote  of  love  with  high  conceit 
And  beauty  reared  above  her  height. 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 

[ISS3-IS99-] 

ANGELIC  MINISTRY. 

AxD  is  there  care  in  Heaven?    And  is 

there  love 
In  heavenly  spirits  to  these  creaturesbase, 
That  may  compassion  of  their  evils  move  ? 
There   is,  —  else   much   more   wretched 

were  the  case 
Of  men  than  beasts  :  but  0  the  exceed- 
ing grace 
Of  highest  God,  that  loves  his  creatures  so. 
And  all  his  works  with  mercy  doth  em- 
brace. 
That  blessed  angels  he  sends  to  and  fro. 
To  serve  to  wicked   man,  to   serve   his 
wicked  foe ! 

How  oft  do  they  their  silver  bowers  leave, 
To  come  to  succor  us  that  succor  want ! 
How  oft  do   they  with  golden  pinions 

cleave 
The  flitting  skies,  like  flying  pursuivant, 
Against  foul  fiends  to  aid  us  militant ! 
They  for  us  fight,  they  watch  and  duly 

ward, 
And  their  bright  squadrons  round  about 

us  plant ; 
And  all  for  love  and  nothing  for  reward  ; 
0,  why  should   heavenly   God   to  men 

have  such  regard  ? 


THE  TRUE  WOMAN. 

Thrice  happy  she  that  is  so  well  assured 
Unto  herself,  and  settled  so  in  heart, 
That  neither  will  for  better  be  allured, 
Ne  fears  to  worse  with  any  chance  to  start, 
But  like  a  steady  shi])  doth  strongly  ])art 
The  raging  weaves,  and  keeps  her  course 

aright ; 
Ne  ought  for  tempest  doth  from  it  depart, 
Ne  ought  for  fairer  weather's  false  de- 
light. 


8 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Such    self-assurance   need  not  fear  the 

spite 
Of  grudging  foes,  ne  favor  seek  of  friends  ; 
But  in  the  stayof  herown  steaiUast  might, 
Neither  to  one  lu'iself  or  other  bends. 
Most  happy  she  that  most  assured  doth 

rest. 
But  he  most  happy  who  sucli  one  loves 

best. 

FROM  THE  EPITHALAMIITM. 

Open  the  tenqde-gates  unto  my  love. 
Open  them  •wide  that  she  may  enter  in. 
And  all  the  posts  adorn  as  doth  behove, 
And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  garhmd.s 

trim, 
For  to  receive  this  saint  with  honor  due, 
That  Cometh  in  to  you. 
"With  trembling  steps  and  humble  rev- 
erence . 
Sh?  Cometh  in  before  the  Almighty's  view, 
or  lier,  ye  virgins  !  learn  obedience, 
When  so  ye  conn;  into  these  holy  places. 
To  humble  your  proud  faces. 
Bring  her  up  to  the  high  altar,  that  she 

may 
The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake. 
The  which  do  endless  matrimony  make; 
And  let  the  roaring  organs  loudly  play 
The  praises  of  the  Lord,  in  lively  notes, 
The  whiles  witli  hollow  throats 
The  choristers  the  joyous  anthems  sing. 
That   all   the  woods   may   answer,    and 
their  echo  ring. 

Behold  whiles  r.he  before  the  altar  stands, 
'Hearing  the  holy  i)riest that  to  her  s])eaks. 
And  blesses  herwith  his  twohn[)py  hands, 
How  red  the  roses  Hush  up  in  her  (dieeks  ' 
And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermeil 

stain. 
Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain, 
That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
Al)out  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 
Forget  their  .service,  and  about  her  fly, 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more 

fair 
The  more  they  on  it  stare ; 
But  her  sad  eyes,  sti)l  fastened  on  the 

ground. 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 
That  suffei>  not  one  look  to  glance  awry, 
AVhich  may  let  in  a  little  thought  un- 
sound. 
Why  blusli  ye,  Love  !  to  give  to  me  your 
hand, 


The  pledge  of  all  your  band  ? 
Sing,  ye  sweet  angels  I     Alleluia  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 


UNA   AND   THE   LION. 

One  day,  nigh  weaiy  of  the  irksome  way. 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight ; 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight , 
And  laid  her  stole  a.side  :  her  angel's  hice, 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shined  bright. 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  jilace; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heav- 
enly grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood, 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly, 
Huiiting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood; 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy. 
With  gajting  mouth  at  htr  ran  gieedily, 
Tohaveat  once  devoured  her  tendeicoi'.se  ; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  nioie 

His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remor.se. 
And,  with  the  sight  amazed,  foigot  his 
furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kissed  her  weary  feet. 
And  licked  her  lily  hands  with  iawning 

tongue. 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
O  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong, 
And  sim]ile  truth  subdue  avenging  wi-ong I 
Whose  yielded  jiiide  and  pioud  submis- 
sion. 
Still    dreading    death,    when    she    had 

marktkl  long. 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassioji. 
And    drizzling   tears  did  shed  for  pure 
atlection. 

The  lion  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong 

guard 
Of  her  chaste  person,  and  a  faithful  mate 
Ofher  sadtroubles,  and  misfortuneshard. 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch 

and  ward ; 
And,  when  shewaked,  hewaited  diligent, 
With  humble  ser\ice  to  her  will  pre- 
pared : 
Fromher  faireyes  hetook  commandment, 
And  ever  by  her  looks  conceived  her  in- 
tent. 


EDMUND    SPENSER 
THE  HOUSE  OF  RICHES. 
That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and 


9 


strong, 
Like  an  huge  cave  hewn  out  of  rocky  clift, 
From    whose    rough    vault    the    ragged 

breaches  liung 
Embossed  with  massy  gold  of  glorious 

gift, 
And  with  rich  metal  loaded  every  Hft, 
That  heavy  ruin  they  did  seem  to  threat ; 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  <lid  lift 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spread  her  subtle 

iiet, 
Enwrapped   in   foul    smoke  and  clouds 

more  black  than  jet. 

Both  roof,  and  floor,  and  walls,  were  all 
of  gold, 

But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  de- 
cay, 

And  hid  in  darkness,  that  none  could 
behold 

The  hue  thereof:  for  view  of  cheerful 
day 

Did  never  in  that  house  itself  display, 

But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertain  light ; 

Such  as  a  lamj)  whose  life  does  fadeaway ; 

Or  as  the  Moon,  clothed  with  cloudy 
night. 

Does  show  to  him  that  walks  in  fear  and 
sad  atfright. 

In  nil  that  room  was  nothing  to  be  seen 

But  huge  great  iron  chests,  and  coHers 
strong, 

All  barred  with  douljle  bends,  that  none 
could  ween 

Them  to  enforce  by  violence  or  wrong; 

On  every  side  they  i)laced  were  along. 

But  all  the  ground  with  sculls  was  scat- 
tered 

Anddeadmen'sbones,  which  round  about 
were  flung  ; 

Whose  lives,  it  seemed,  whilome  there 
were  shed. 

And  their  vile  carcasses  now  left  unburied. 


THE  BOWER  OF  BLISS. 

Tn  VAiK  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground 

Itself  doth  ofier  to  his  sober  eye, 

In    which     all     pleasures     plenteously 

abound, 
And  none  does  others'  happiness  envy  ; 


The  painted  flowers,  the  trees  upshoot- 
ing  high, 

The  dales  for  shade,  the  hills  for  breath- 
ing space. 

The  trembling  groves,  the  crystal  run- 
ning by ; 

And  that  which  all  fair  works  doth  most 
aggrace. 

The  art,  which  all  that  wrought,  ap- 
peared in  no  place. 

One  would  have  thought  (so  cunningly 
the  rude 

And  scorTied  parts  were  mingled  with  the 
fine) 

That  nature  had  for  wantonness  ensued 

Art,  and  that  art  at  nature  did  re- 
pine ; 

So  striving  each  the  other  to  under- 
mine, 

Each  did  the  other's  work  more  beautify ; 

So  ditlering  both  in  wills,  agreed  in 
tine  : 

So  all  agreed  through  sweet  diversity, 

This  garden  to  adorn  with  all  variety, 

Eftsoons  they  heard  a  most  melodious 

sound. 
Of  all  that  might  delight  a  dainty  ear. 
Such  as  at   once   might   not  on    living 

ground. 
Save  in  this  paradise  be  heard  elsewhere  : 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did 

it  hear. 
To  read  what  manner  music  that  might 

be: 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear. 
Was  there  consorted    in  one  harmony  ; 
Birds,  voices,   instruments,   winds,   wa- 
ters, all  agree. 

The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful 

shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempered 

sweet ; 
The  angelical  soft  trembling  voices  made 
To  the  instruments  divine  respondence 

meet ; 
The    silver   sounding   instruments    did 

meet 
With   the  base   niurnmr  of  the  water's 

fall : 
The  water's  fall  with  difTerence  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did 

call : 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered 

to  all. 


10 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


IIOBERT  SOUTinVELL. 

[1560-1595-] 

CONTENT  AND  RICH. 

I  DAVKT.i,  in  grace's  courts, 

Kinichi'd  with  virtue's  rights  ; 
Faith  guides  my  wit,  love  h-ads  my  will, 

Hope  all  my  mind  delights. 

• 
In  lowly  vales  I  mount 

To  jileasure's  highest  pitch, 
5[y  sini])le  dress  sure  honor  brings, 

Aly  poor  estate  is  rich. 

My  conscience  is  my  crown. 
Contented  thoughts  my  rest ; 

My  heart  is  hajipy  in  itself; 
My  bliss  is  in  my  breast. 

Enough,  I  reckon  wealth  ; 

A  mean,  the  surest  lot. 
That  lies  too  high  for  base  contempt, 

Too  low  for  envy's  shot. 

;My  wishes  are  but  few, 

AH  easy  to  fullil ; 
I  make  the  limits  of  my  power 

The  bounds  unto  my  will. 

I  have  no  hopes  but  one, 

Which  is  of  heavenly  reign  : 
Eil'eets  attained,  or  not  desired, 

All  lower  hopes  refrain. 

I  feel  no  care  of  coin, 

Well-doing  is  my  wealth  : 
My  mind  to  me  an  empire  is, 

While  grace  affordeth  health. 

I  clip  high-cliTubing  thoughts, 
The  wings  of  .swelling  jaide  : 

Their  fate  is  worst,  that  from  the  height 
Of  greater  honor  slide. 

Silk  sails  of  largest  size 

The  storm  doth  soonest  tear  : 

1  bear  so  low  and  .small  a  sail 
As  freeth  me  from  fear. 

I  wrestle  not  with  rage 

While  fury's  Hame  doth  burn  ; 

It  is  in  vain  to  stop  the  stream 
Until  the  tide  doth  turn. 

But  when  the  flame  is  out. 
And  ebbing  wrath  doth  end, 


I  turn  a  late-enraged  foe 
Into  a  quiet  friend; 

And,  taught  with  often  proof, 

A  tempered  calm  I  tind 
To  be  most  solace  to  itself, 

Best  cure  for  angry  mind. 

Spare  diet  is  my  fare, 

My  clothes  more  fit  than  fine  ; 
I  know  I  feed  and  clothe  a  foe 

That,  pampered,  would  repine. 

I  envy  not  their  hap 

Whom  favor  doth  advance : 

I  take  no  pleasure  in  their  pain 
That  have  less  happy  chance. 

■  To  rise  by  others'  fall 
I  deem  a  losing  gain  : 
All  states  with  otheis'  ruins  built 
To  ruins  run  amain. 

No  change  of  fortune's  calms 
Can  cast  my  comforts  down  : 

When  fortune  smiles,  1  smile  to  think 
How  quickly  she  will  frown ; 

And  when,  in  froward  mood, 

She  proved  an  angry  foe. 
Small  gain  1  found  to  let  her  come. 

Less  loss  to  let  her  go. 


ALEXANDER  HUME. 

[About  1599.] 
A  SUMMER'S  DAY. 

Thk  time  so  tranquil  is  and  clear, 
That  nowhere  sliall  ye  find, 

Save  on  a  high  and  barren  hill. 
An  air  of  passing  wind. 

All  trees  and  simples,  great  and  small, 

That  balmy  leaf  do  bear. 
Than  they  were  painted  on  a  wall, 

No  more  they  move  or  stir. 

The  ships  becalmed  upon  the  ,seas, 
Hang  up  their  sails  to  dry  ; 

The  herds,  beneath  tlie  leafy  fri-ees, 
Aniong  the  flowers  they  lie. 


SIR  JOHN   DAVIES. 


11 


Great  is  the  calm,  for  evprywhere 
The  wind  is  settliiif^  down  : 

The  smoke  goes  upright  in  the  air, 
From  every  tower  and  town. 

What  pleasure,  then,  to  walk  and  see, 

Along  a  river  clear, 
Tiie  perfect  form  of  every  tree 

AVithin  the  deep  appear  : 

The  bells  and  circles  on  the  waves, 

From  leaping  of  the  trout ; 
The  salmoTi  from  their  creels  and  caves 

Come  gliding  in  and  out. 

0  sure  it  were  a  seemly  thing, 

While  all  is  still  and  calm, 
The  praise  of  God  to  play  and  sing, 

With  trnmpet  and  with  shalm ! 

All  laborers  draw  home  at  even, 

And  can  to  others  say, 
"Thanks  to  the  gracious  God  of  heaven. 

Who  sent  this  summer  day." 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 

[1570- 1626.] 

THE  SOUL. 

Again,  how  can  she  hut  immortal  be. 
When  with  the  motions  of  both  will 
and  wit 

She  still  aspireth  to  eternit}'^, 

And  never  rests  till  she  attaiji  to  it  ? 

AVater  in  conduit-pipes  can  rise  no  higher 
Than  the  well-head  from  whence  it  tirst 
dotli  spring : 
Then,  since  to  eternal  God  she  doth  as- 
pire,      . 
She  cannot  be  but  an  eternal  thing. 

"  All  moving  things  to  other  things  do 
move 
Of  the  same  kind,  which  shows  their 
nature  such  " ; 
So  earth  falls  down,  and  fire  doth  mount 
above, 
Till   both    their  proper   elements   do 
touch. 


And  as  the  moisture  which  the  thirsty 
earth 
Sucks  from  the  sea  to  fill  her  empty 
veins. 
From  out  her  womb  at  last  doth  take  a 
birth, 
And  runs  a  lymph   along  the  grassy 
plains  : 

Long  doth  she  stay,  as  loth  to  leave  the 
land 
From  whose  soft  side  the  first  did  issue 
make  ; 
She  tastes  all  places,  turns  to  everj'  hand, 
Her  flowery  banks  unwilling  to  for- 
sake. 

Yet  Nature  so  her  streams  doth  lead  and 
carry, 
As  that  her  course -doth  make  no  final 
stay. 
Till  she  herself  unto  the  Ocean  marry. 
Within  whose  watery  bosom  first  she 
lay.  ■ 

Even  so  the  soul,  which  in  this  earthly 
mould 
The  spirit  of   God  doth  secretly  in- 
fuse, 
Because  at  first  she  doth  the  earth  be- 
hold, 
And  only  this  material  world  she  views. 

At  first  her  mother   Earth  she  holdeth 
dear, 
And   doth    embrace    the   world,    and 
woildly  things. 
She  flies  close  by  the  ground  and  hovers 
here, 
And  mounts  not  up  with  her  celestial 


Yet  under  heaven  she  cannot  light  on 
aught 
That  with  her  heavenly  nature  doth 
agree ; 
She   cannot    rest,    she    cannot    fix    her 
thought. 
She  cannot  in  this  world  contented  be. 

For  who  did  ever  yet,  in  honor,  wealth. 
Or  pleasure  of  the  sense,  contentment 
find? 
AVho  ever  ceased  to  wish  when  he  had 
wealth  ? 
Or  having  w-isdom  was  not  vexed  in 
mind  ? 


12 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Tlien  as  a  hee,  which  among  weeds  doth 
fall, 
Which  sccni  sweet  flowers  with  lustre 
fresh  and  gay, 
She  lights  on  that  and  this,  and  tasteth 
all; 
But  pleased  with  none,  doth  rise  and 
sour  away. 

So  when  the  soul  finds  here  no  true  con- 
tent, 
And   like   Noah's   dove   can   no  sure 
footing  take. 
She  doth   return  from  whence  she  first 
was  sent, 
And  flies  to  Him  that  first  her  wings 
did  make. 

So  while  the  virgin  soul  on  earth  doth 
stay. 
She,  wooed  and  tempted  in  ten  thou- 
sand ways. 
By  these  great  i)0wers  which  on  the  earth 
bear  sway. 
The    wisdom    of   the   world,    wealth, 
pleasure,  praise : 

With  these  sometimes  she  doth  her  time 
beguile, 
These  do  by  fibs  her  fajitasy  possess; 
But  she  distastes  them  all  within  a  while, 
And  in  the  sweetest  finds  a  tedious- 
ness  ; 

But  if  upon  the  world's  Almighty  King 
She  once  doth  fix  her  humble,  loving 
thougiit ; 
Who  by  his  picture  drawn  in  every  thing. 
And  sacred    messages,  her  love  hath 
sought ; 

Of  him  she  thinks  she  cannot  think  too 
much ; 
This  honey  tasted  still,  is  ever  sweet ; 
The  pleasure  of  her  ravished  thought  is 
such. 
As  almost  here  she  with  her  bliss  doth 
meet. 

But  when  in  heaven  she  shall  his  essence 
see. 
This  is  her  sovereign  good,  and  perfect 
bliss, 


There  is  she  crowned  with  garlands  of 
content ; 
There  doth  she  manna  eat,  and  nectar 
drink  : 
That  presence  doth  such  high  delights 
present, 
As   never    tongue    could    spe.ak,    nor 
heart  could  think. 


THOMAS  KASE 

[1564-1600.] 

CONTENTMENT. 

I  NF.VKU  loved  ambitiously  to  climb, 
Or  thrust  my  hand  too  far  into  the  hre. 
To  be  in  heaven  sure  is  a  blessed  thing. 
But,  Atlas-like,  to  juo])  heaven  on  one's 

back 
Cannot  but  be  more  labor  than  delight. 
Such  is  the  state  of  men  in  honor  plac  ed  : 
They  are  gold  vessels  made  for  servile 

uses ; 
High  trees  that,  keep  the  weather  from 

low  houses. 
But  cannot  shield  the  tempest  from  them- 
selves. 
I  love  to  dwell  betwixt  the  hills  and  dales, 
Neither  to  be  so  great  as  to  be  envied. 
Nor  yet  so  poor  the  world  should  pity  me. 


WILLIAM  DPtUMMO^l). 

[1585-1649.] 

THE  LESSONS  OF  NATURE. 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  Woild  do 

name 
If  we  the  sheets  and  leaves  could  turn 

with  care. 
Of  him  who  it  corrects,  and  did  it  frnme, 
We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom 

rare: 

Find  out  his  power  which  wildest  powers 
dotli  tame. 


Her  longings,  wishings,  hopes,  all  fin-    His  proviilem-o  extending  evej-ywhere, 


ished  be, 

Her  joys  are  full,  her  motions  rest  in 
this. 


His  justice  which  proud   rebels  doth  not 

spare. 
In  every  page,  no  period  of  the  same. 


SIR   HENRY   WOTTON.  —  LADY   ELIZABETH    CAREW. 


13 


But  silly  we,  like  foolish  children,  rest 
Well  pleased  with  colored  vellum,  leaves 

of  gold, 
Fair  dangling  ribbons,  leaving  what  is 

best. 
On  the  great  writer's  sense  ne'er  taking 

hold; 


Or  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on 

aught. 
It  is  some  pictui'e  on  the  margin  wrought. 


Sm  HENRY  WOTTOK 

[iS68  -  1639.] 

TO    HIS    MISTRESS,  THE    QUEEN    OF 
BOHEMIA. 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light ! 

You  connnon  people  of  the  skies  ! 

What  are  you,  when  the  sua  shall  rise? 

Yon  curious  .chanters  of  the  wood, 

That  warble  forth  dame  Nature's  lays, 

Thinking  your  voices  understood 

By  your  weak  accents  !  what 's  your 

praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise  ? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known. 
Like  the  ])roud  virgins  of  the  year, 

As  if  the  spiing  were  all  your  own  ! 

What  are  you,  when  the  rose  is  blown  ? 

So,  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind  ; 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen ! 
Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  designed 
The  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 


THE  GOOD  MAN. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, 
Tliat  serveth  not  another's  will ; 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

W^hose  passions  not  his  masters  are,      , 
Whose  soul  is  still  jjrepared  for  death, 


Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 

Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath  ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise; 

Or  vice  ;  who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise  ; 

Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed. 
Whose  conscience  is  Iiis  strong  ivtreat ; 

Wliose  state  can  neither  Hatterers  feed. 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  grept ; 

AVho  God  doth  late  and  early  pray, 
Moie  of  his  grace  tlian  gifts  to  lend ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend  : 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands, 
Of  ho])e  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


LADY  ELIZABETH  CAREW. 

[About  1613.] 

REVENGE  OF  INJURIES. 

The  fairest  action  of  our  human  life 
Is  scorning  to  revenge  an  injury ; 

For  who  forgives  without  a  further  strife, 
His  adversary's  heart  to  him  doth  ti(^ ; 

And  't  is  a  fii'mer  conquest  truly  said. 

To  win  the  heart,  than  overthrow  the  head. 

If  we  a  worthy  en?my  do  find. 

To  yield  to  worth  it  must  be  nolily  done  ; 
But  if  of  baser  metal  be  his  mind. 

In  base  revenge  there  is  no  honor  won. 
Who  would  a  worthy  courage  overthrow  ? 
And  who  would  wrestle  with  a  worthless 
foe? 

We  say  our  hearts  are  great,  and  cannot 

yield; 
Because  they  cannot  yield,  it  proves 

them  poor : 
Great   hearts   are    tasked  beyond   their 

])Ower  but  seld ; 
The  weakest  lion  will  the  loudest  roar. 
Truth's  school  for  certain  doth  this  same 

allow  ; 
High-heartedness  doth  sometimes  teach 

to  bow. 


14 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


A   noble   heart   dotli   teach   a   virtuous 
scorn :  — 
To  scorn  to  owe  a  dutv^  overlong ; 
To  scorn  to  be  for  benefits  forborne ; 

To  scorn  to  lie ;  to  scorn  to  do  a  wrong ; 
To  scorn  to  bear  an  injury  in  mind ; 
To  scorn  a  free-born  heart  slave-like  to 
bind. 

But  if  for  wrongs  we  needs  revenge  must 

have, 
Then  be  our  vengeance  of  the  noblest 

kind. 
Do  we  his  body  from  our  fury  save, 
And  let  our  hate  prevail  against  his 

mind? 
What  can  'gainst  him  a  greater  vengeance 

be, 
Than  nuike  his  foe  more  worthy  far  than 

he? 


SAMUEL  DAMEL. 

[1562-1619] 

FROM    AN    EPISTLE    TO   THE  COUNT- 
ESS OF  CUMBERLAND. 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his 

mind, 
And  reared  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts 

so  strong. 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the 

frame 
or  liis  resolved  powers;  nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  jiierce  to  wi'ong 
His  settled  j)eace,  oi'  to  disturb  the  same  : 
"What  a  fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he 

may 
The  bountlless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man 

survey  ? 

And  with  how  free  an  eye  doth  he  look 

rlown 
T^pon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil? 
Where  all  the  storms  of  passions  mainly 

beat 
On  flesh  and  blood:  where  honor,  power, 

renown, 
Are  only  gny  afflictions,  golden  toil; 
Wiiere   greatness  stands  uj)on  as  feeble 

feet, 
As  frailty  (loth  ;  and  only  great  doth  seem 
To  little  minds,  who  do  it  so  esteem. 


He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch's 

wars 
But  only  as  on  stately  robberies ; 
Where  evermore  the  fortune  that  prevails 
Must  be  the  right :  the  ill-succeedingmais 
The  fairest  and  the  best  faced  enterjuise. 
Great  pirate  I'ompey  lesser  pirates  ([uails : 
Justice,  he  sees  (as  if  seduced),  still 
Consi)ires  with  jiower,  whose  cause  must 

not  be  ill. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  com- 
passes. 

And  is  encompassed ;  whilst  as  cralt  de- 
ceives, 

And  is  deceived :  whilst  man  doth  ransack 
man, 

And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress ; 

And  the  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 

To  great-expecting  hopes :  lie  looks  theie- 
on. 

As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  unwet 
eye, 

And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 

Thus,  madam,  fares  that  man,  that  hath 

prepared 
A  rest  for  iiis  desii-es  ;  and  sees  all  tilings 
Beneath  him  ;  and  hath  learned  this  book 

of  man, 
Full  of  the  notes  of  frailty  ;  and  compared 
Tlie  best  of  gloiy  witli  lier  sufferings  : 
I\y  whom,  I  see,  you  labor  all  you  can 
To  plant  yourheart ;  andset  your  thoughts 

as  near 
His  glorious  mansion,  as  your  powers  can 

bear. 

Which,  madam,  are  so  soundly  fashioned        , 
By  that  clear  judgment,  that  hath  carried 

you 
Beyond  the  feeble  limits  of  your  kinil, 
As  they  can  stand  against  the  strongest 

head 
Passion  can  make ;  inured  to  any  hue 
The  world  can  cast :  it  cannot  cast  that 

mind 
Out  of  her  form  of  goodness,  that  dotli  see 
Both  what  the  best  and  worst  of  earth 

can  be. 

Which  makes,  that  whatsoever  here  be- 
falls. 

You  in  the  region  of  yourself  remain  : 

Where  no  vain  breath  of  the  impudent 
molests 

That  hath  secured  within  the  brazen  walls 


WILLIAM   EYED. 


15 


Of  a.  clear  conscience,  that  (without  all 
stain) 

Eises  in  peace,  in  innocency  rests ; 

Whilst  all  that  Malice  from  without  pro- 
cures 

Shows  her  own  ugly  heart,  hut  hurts  not 
yours. 

And  whereas  none  rejoice  more  in  revenge, 
Than  women   use  to  do  ;   yet   you  well 

know, 
That  wrong  is  hetter  checked  hy  being 

contemned. 
Than  heiiig  pursued ;  leaving  to  him  to 

avenge. 
To  whom  it  appertains.  WHierein  j'oi;  show 
How  worthily  your  clearness  hath  con- 
demned 
Base  malediction,  living  in  the  dark, 
That  at  the  rays  of  goodness  still  doth 
bark. 

Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which 
These  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll ;  where  all  the  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate  :    whose  strong  eftects  are 

such, 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  re- 
dress : 
And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man. 


WILLIAM  BYRD. 

[1540- 1623.] 

MY  MIND  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  IS. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is  ; 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  find 
As  far  exceeds  all  earthly  bliss 

That  God  or  Nature  hath  assigned  ; 
Though  mucli  I  want  that  most  would 

have. 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live ;  this  is  my  stay,  — 
I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway ; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies. 

Lo  !  tlius  1  triumph  like  a  king. 

Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 


I  see  how  plenty  surfeits  oft, 
And  hasty  climbers  soonest  fall; 

I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 

These  get  with  toil,  and  keeji  with  fear  ; 

Such  cares  iny  mind  could  never  bear. 

No  princely  pomp  nor- wealthy  store. 

No  force  to  win  the  victory. 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  win  a  lover's  ej^e,  — 
To  none  of  these  1  yield  as  thrall ; 
For  why,  my  mind  despiseth  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they  crave  ; 

1  little  have,  yet  seek  up  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they 
have  ; 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  poor,  I  rich ;  they  beg,  I  give ; 
They  lack,  1  lend ;  they  pine,  1  live.  • 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss, 
1  grudge  not  at  another's  gain ; 

No  worldly  wave  my  mind  can  toss; 
I  brook  that  is  another's  bane. 

I  fear  no  foe,  nor  fawn  on  friend ; 

I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  bliss; 

I  weigh  not  Croesus'  wealth  a  straw ; 
For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is ; 

I  fear  not  fortune's  fatal  law ; 
My  mind  is  .such  as  may  not  move 
For  beauty  bright,  or  force  of  love. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will ; 

I  wander  not  to  seek  for  more ; 
I  like  the  plain,  I  climb  no  hill; 

In  greatest  storms  I  sit  on  shore. 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toil  in  vain 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  again. 

I  kiss  not  where  I  wish  to  kill ; 

I  feign  not  love  where  most  I  hate ; 
I  break  no  sleep  to  win  my  will ; 

I  wait  not  at  the  mighty's  gate. 
I  scorn  no  jioor,  1  fear  no  rich  ; 
I  feel  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  nor  cart  I  like  nor  loathe ; 

Extremes  are  counted  worst  of  all ; 
The  golden  mean  betwixt  them  both 

Doth  surest  sit,  and  I'ears  no  fall ; 
Tills  is  my  choice ;  for  why,  I  find 
No  wealth  is  like  a  quiet  mind. 


16 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


.;My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease; 

My  tuiiscieiice  ch-ar  iny  ehiel'  def euce  ; 
I  never  seek  by  bribes  to  i)lease, 
Nor  by  desert  to  give  otteiice. 
Titus  do  I  live,  thus  will  1  die ; 
"Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  i ! 


AVILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 
[1564- 1616.] 

SONGS. 

ARIEL'S  SONG. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  lurk  I ; 
111  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry; 
Oh  the  bat's  back  I  do  Hy. 
After  summer  merrily, 
"Jlerrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom   that  hangs  on  the 
bough. 

THE   FAIRY   TO   PUCK. 

Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale. 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

1  do  wander  everywhere. 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere. 

And  1  serve  the  Fairy  Queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green  ; 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be, 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see,  — 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors; 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 

I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here. 

And  hang  a  jn-arl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 


AMIEX.S'S   SOXG. 

Bt.ow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  .so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Altliough  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot : 


Though  thou  the  waters  worp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharji 
As  friend  remembered  not. 


A  SEA  DIRGE. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eye.s : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade. 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them,  — 


Ding,  dong,  bell. 


HARK!  HARK!  THE  LARK! 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate 
sings, 

And  Phttbus  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  tiiat  lies; 
And  winking  ]\Iaiy-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin ; 

My  lady  sweet,  arise. 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD-TREE. 

Undeu  the  greenwood-tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun. 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  j)leased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


DIRGE   FOR   FIDELE. 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages ; 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 


17 


Golden  lads  and  j^irls  all  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  fVown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning  flash, 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 
Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan  : 
All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exorciser  harm  thee  ! 
Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee! 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 
Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
Quiet  consummation  have ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave. 


SONNETS. 

When   in    disgrace    with   fortune    and 
men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state. 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  boot- 
less cries. 

And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 

Wishing   me  like  to  one  more  rich  in 
hope. 

Featured  like  him,  like  liim  with  fi  lends 
jtossessed, 

Desiring  tliis  man's  art,  and  that  man's 
scope. 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  de- 
spising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  —  and  then  my 
state 

(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heav- 
en's gate  ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered,  such 

wealth  brings. 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state 
with  kings. 


When  to  the   sessions  of  sweet  silent 

thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  •things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 


And  with    old  woes   new  wail  my  dear 

time's  waste: 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow. 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  date- 
less night. 
And  weep  afresh  love's   long-since-can- 
celled woe. 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  van- 
ished sight. 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone. 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan. 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear 

friend, 
All   losses   are  restored,   and  sorrows 
end. 


That  time  of  year  thou  mavst  in  me  be- 
hold 

AVhen  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do' 
hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against 
the  cold, 

Bai'e  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet 
birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day. 

As  after  snnstit  fadeth  in  the  west, 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  dotli  take 
away. 

Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in 
rest. 

In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such 
fire. 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 

As  the  dcatli-bod  whereon  it   must  ex- 
pire. 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nour- 
ished by. 
This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy 

love  more  strong, 
To  love   that  well  which    thou    must 
leave  erelong. 


They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will 
do  none. 

That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  ilo 
show. 

Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as 
stone, 

Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow ; 

They  riglitly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces. 

And  husljand  nature's  riches  from  ex- 
pense ; 


18 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Tliey  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their 

i'aces, 
OtluMS  but  stewards  of  tlicir  excellence. 
The  suninier's  flower  is  to  the  summer 

sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die ; 
15ut   it'   that  flower  with   base    infection 

meet. 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity: 
For  sweetest  things   turn   sourest   by 

their  deeds ; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than 
weeds. 


Ai,AS,  'tis  true,  I  havegone  hereand  there. 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view. 
Gored  mine  own    thoughts,  sold   cheap 

what  is  most  dear, 
Made  old  offences  of  affections  new. 
^lost  true  it  is,  that  1  have  looked  on 

truth 
Askance  and  strangely  ;  but,  byall  above. 
These  blenches  gave  my  heart  another 

youth, 
And  worse  essays  proved  thee  my  best  of 

love. 
Now  all  is  done,  save  what  shall  have  no 

enii: 
Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 
On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  fiiend, 
A  Ood  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confined. 
Then  give  me  welcome,  ne.xt  my  heaven 

the  best. 
Even  to  thy  pure  and  most  most  loving 

breast. 


Lk.t  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediment,s.     Love  is  not  love 
"WMiich  alters  when  it  alteration  finds. 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove; 
O  no;  it  is  an  ever-ti.xed  mark. 
That  Jooks  on    teni]iests,  and   is   never 

shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his 

height  b(!  taken. 
Love  's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips 

and  clieeks 
Within   his   bending    sickle's    compass 

come ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and 

weeljs, 
But  bears  it  ovtt  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  provt-d, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


No !  Time,  thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I 

do  change : 
Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might 
To  me  are  nothing  novel,  nothingstrange  ; 
They  are  but  dressings  of  a  former  sight. 
Our   dates   are  brief,    and   theiefore  we 

admire 
What  thou  dost  foist  upon  us  that  is  old ; 
And  rather  make  them  lioni  to  our  desire. 
Than  think  that  we  before  have  heard 

them  told. 
Thy  registers  and  thee  I  both  defy, 
Not  wonderingatthepresentnortliepast ; 
For  thy  records  and  what  we  see  do  lie, 
Made  more  or  less  by  thy  continual  haste : 
This  I  do  vow,  and  this  shall  ever  be, 
I  will  be  true,  despite  thy  scythe  and 

thee. 


BEN  JONSON. 

[1574- 1637.] 

THE  NOBLE  NATURE. 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  man  better  be ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred 

year. 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere  : 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  Jfay, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night,  — - 
It  was  the  ])lant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  juopoitions  we  just  beauties  see  ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  peif'ect  be. 


SONG  OF  HESPERUS. 

QuF.EN,  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 

Cynthia'a  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear,  when  <lay  did  close : 
P)!ess  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Cioddess  excellently  bright. 


UNKNOWN. 


19 


Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver ; 

Give  unto  the  Hying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever : 
Thou  that  niakest  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


ON  LUCY,   COUNTESS  OF  BEDFORD. 

This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire, 
I  thought  to  form  unto  my  zealous  Muse, 
What  kind  of  creature  I  could  most  desire. 
To  honor,  serve,  and  love  ;  as  poets  use, 
I  meant  to  make  her  fair,  and  free,  and 
wise. 
Of  greatest  blood,  and  yet  more  good 
than  great ; 
I  meant  the  day-star  should  not  brighter 
rise. 
Nor  lend  like  influence  from  his  lucent 
seat. 
I  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile, 
sweet, 
Hating  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness, 
pride  ; 
I  meant  each  softest  virtue  there  should 
meet, 
Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 
Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

I    fiurposed   her;    that   should,    with 

even  powers. 

The  rock,  the  spindle,  and   the   shears 

control 

Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free  hours. 

Such  when  I  meant  to  feign,  and  wished 

to  see. 
My  Muse  bade,  Bedford  write,  and  that 
was  she. 


THE  SWEET  NEGLECT. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast: 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed  : 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found. 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

(Hve  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 

Kobes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free : 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me, 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art, 

That  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 


HOW  NEAR  TO  GOOD  IS  WHAT  IS  FAIR ! 

How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair ! 

Which  we  no  sooner  see, 
But  with  the  lines  and  outward  air 

Our  senses  taken  be. 
We  wish  to  see  it  still,  and  prove 

What  ways  we  may  deserve  ; 
We  court,  we  praise,  we  more  than  love, 

We  are  not  grieved  to  serve. 


EPITAPH  ON  ELIZABETH  L.   H. 

WouLDST  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 

In  a  little? — reader,  stay  ! 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 

As  much  beauty  as  could  die,  — 

Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 

To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault. 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth,  — 

The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death. 

Fitter  wliere  it  died  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell ! 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1649.] 
LOVE  WILL  FIND  OUT  THE  WATT. 

Over  the  mountains. 

And  under  the  waves, 
Over  the  fountains. 

And  under  the  graves, 
Under  floods  which  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey. 
Over  rocks  which  are  steepest. 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie. 
Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  receipt  of  a  fly, 
Where  the  gnat  dares  not  venture, 

Lest  hersidf  fast  she  lay, 
If  Love  come  he  will  enter. 

And  find  out  the  way. 

If  that  he  were  hidden. 
And  all  men  that  are, 

Were  strictly  forbidden 
That  place  to  declare; 


20 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


"Winds  that  have  no  abidings, 

Pitying  their  dehiy, 
Would  come  and  bring  him  tidings, 

And  direct  him  the  way. 

If  the  earth  shouLl  part  him, 

He  would  gallop  it  o'er  ; 
If  the  seas  sliould  o'erthwart  him, 

He  would  swim  to  the  shore. 
Should  his  love  become  a  swallow, 

Through  the  air  to  stray, 
Love  will  lend  wings  to  follow, 

And  will  lind  out  the  way. 

There  is  no  striving 

To  cross  his  intent, 
There  is  no  contriving 

His  plots  to  prevent ; 
But  if  once  the  message  greet  him, 

Tiiat  his  true  love  doth  stay. 
If  death  should  come  and  meet  him, 

Love  will  find  out  the  wav. 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  i68g.] 

MAY-DAY  SONG. 

Remember  us  poor  Mayers  all! 

And  thus  do  we  begin 
To  lead  our  lives  in  righteousness, 

Or  else  we  die  in  sin. 

We  have  lieen  rambling  all  the  night, 

And  almost  all  the  day  ; 
And  now  letunied  back  again. 

We  have  brought  you  a  branch  of  ]May. 

A  branch  of  May  we  have  brought  you. 
And  at  your  door  it  stands: 

It  is  but  a  sp)out, 

l)Ut  it's  well  budded  out 
By  the  work  of  our  Lord's  hands. 

Tlie  heavenly  gates  are  open  wide. 

Our  paths  are  beaten  plain  ; 
And  if  a  man  be  not  too  far  gone, 

He  may  return  again. 

The  moon  shines  bright,  and  the  stars 
give  a  light, 
A  little  before  it  is  day; 
So  God    bless   you   all,  lioth  great  and 
small, 
And  send  you  a  joyful  May  ! 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1649.] 
BEGONE  DTJIX  CARE  I 

Begone  dull  care ! 

1  prithee  begone  from  me  : 
Begone  dull  care  ! 

Thou  and  1  can  never  agree. 
Long  while  thou  hast  been  tarrying  here, 

And  fain  thou  wouldst  me  kill ; 
But  i'  faith,  dull  care. 

Thou  never  shalt  have  thy  will. 

Too  much  care 

Will  make  a  j'oung  man  gi'ay ; 
Too  much  care 

Will  turn  an  old  man  to  clay. 
My  wife  shall  dance,  and  1  will  sing, 

So  merrily  ])ass  the  day; 
For  1  Jiold  it  is  the  wisest  thing, 

To  drive  dull  cart;  away. 

Hence,  dull  care, 

I  '11  none  of  thy  company ; 
Hence,  dull  care. 

Thou  art  no  pair  for  me. 
We  '11  hunt  the  wild  boar 
wold, 

So  merril)'^  ]iass  the  day ; 
And  then  at  night,  o'er  a  cheerful  bowl, 

We  '11  drive  dull  care  away. 


through  the 


BISHOP  RICHARD  CORBETT. 
[1582- 1635.] 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  FAIRIES. 

FAnKW'ELL  rewards  and  fairies  ! 

Good  housewifes  now  may  say, 
For  how  foul  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they. 
And  though  they  swee[)  tiieir  hearths  no 
less 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  do ; 
Yet  who  of  late,  for  cleanlii^ess, 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shoe? 

Lament,  lament,  old  Abbey.s, 

The  fairies'  lost  command; 
They  did  but*changi'  jniests'  liabies. 

But  some  have  ciianged  your  land  ; 
And  all  your  childicn  sprang  from  thence 

Are  now  grown  Puritans  ; 


UNKNOWN. 


21 


Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since, 
For  love  of  your  domains. 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both, 

You  merry  were  and  glad, 
So  little  care  of  sleep  or  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had  ; 
AVhen  Tom  came  home  from  labor, 

Or  Cis  to  milking  rose, 
Then  merrily  went  their  tabor. 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain. 
Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  days 

On  many  a  grassy  plain ; 
But  since  of  late  Elizabeth, 

And  later,  James  came  in. 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been. 

By  which  we  note  the  fairies 

Were  of  the  old  profession. 
Their  songs  were  Ave-Maries, 

Their  dances  were  procession: 
But  now,  alas  !  they  all  are  dead, 

Or  gone  beyond  the  seas  ; 
Or  farther  for  religion  fled ; 

Or  else  they  take  their  ease. 

A  tell-tale  in  their  company 

They  never  could  endure, 
And  whoso  kept  not  secretly 

Their  mirth,  was  punished  sure  ; 
It  was  a  just  and  Christian  deed, 

To  pinch  such  black  and  l)lue  : 
0,  how  the  commonwealth  doth  need 

Such  justices  as  you ! 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1649  ] 

ROBIN  GOODFELLOW. 

Fuo.M  Oheron,  in  fairy-land. 

The  king  of  ghosts  and  shadows  there, 
Mad  Eobin  I,  at  his  command, 

Am  sent  to  view  the  night-sports  here. 
What  revel  rout 
Is  kept  about. 
In  evei'y  corner  where  I*  go, 
I  will  o'ersee. 
And  merry  be, 
And  make  good  sport,  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


More  swift  than  lightning  can  I  (ly 

About  this  airy  welkin  soon, 
And,  in  a  minute's  space,  descry 

Each  thing  that  "s  done  below  the  moon. 
There 's  not  a  hag 
Or  ghost  shall  wag. 
Or  crv,  'ware  goblins  !  where  I  go ; 
But  Robin  I 
Their  feasts  will  spy, 
And  send  them  home  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Whene'er  such  wanderers  I  meet. 

As  from  tlieir  lught-sports  they  trudge 
home, 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greet. 
And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roam : 
Through  woods,  through  lakes  ; 
Throttgh  bogs,  through  l)rakes; 
Or  else,  unseen,  with  them  I  go. 
All  in  the  nick. 
To  play  some  trick. 
And  frolic  it,  with  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Sometimes  I  meet  them  like  a  man. 

Sometimes  an  ox,  sometimes  a  hound; 
And  to  a  horse  I  turn  me  can. 

To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round. 

But  if  to  ride 

My  back  they  stride, 
More  swift  than  wind  away  I  go, 

O'er  hedge  and  lands, 

Through  jiools  and  ponds, 
I  hurry,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

When  lads  and  lasses  merry  be, 

With  possets  and  with  junkets  fine; 
Unseen  of  all  the  comyiany, 

I  eat  their  cakes  and  sip  their  wine  ! 
And,  to  make  sport, 
'  I  putf  and  snort : 
And  out  the  candles  I  do  blow : 
The  maids  I  kiss, 
They  shriek  —  Who's  this? 
I  answer  naught  but  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Yet  now  and  then,  the  maids  to  please. 

At  midnight  I  card  up  their  wool ; 
And,  while   they  sleep   and  take   their 
ease. 
With  wheel  to  threads  their  flax  I  pull. 
I  grind  at  mill 
Their  malt  up  still; 
I  dress  their  hemp  ;  I  spin  their  tow ; 
If  any  wake. 
And  would  me  take, 
I  wend  me,  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 


22 


SONGS    OF   THKEE    CENTUKIES. 


"WhtMi  any  noed  to  borrow  aught, 

We  Il'iuI  them  wli;it  thi-y  do  r(>qinre : 
And  for  t\u'.  use  demand  we  naught ; 
Our  own  is  all  we  do  desire. 
1 1'  to  repay 
They  do  delay, 
Abroad  amongst  them  then  I  go. 
And  night  hy  night, 
I  them  atliiglit, 
With  pinehiugs,  dreams,  and  ho,  ho, 
ho! 

When  lazy  qiieans  liave  naught  to  do, 

But  study  how  to  cog  and  lie; 
To  niak(;  dtshate  and  mischief  too, 
'Twixt  one  anotlier  secretly  : 
1  mark  their  gloze, 
And  it  disclose 
To  tliem  whom  they  have  wronged  so  : 
When  I  have  done 
I  get  me  gone. 
And    leave    them    scolding,   ho,    ho, 
ho! 

When  men  do  traps  and  engines  set 

in  loopholes,  wliere  the  vermin  creep. 
Who  from  tlu-ir  folds  and  houses  g(;t 
Their  ducks  and  geese,  and  lambs  and 
sheep ; 
I  spy  the  gin, 
And  enter  in. 
And  seem  a  vermin  taken  so; 
But  when  they  there 
Approach  me  isear, 
I  lea})  out  laughing,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 


Iieyday  guise ; 


By  wells  and  rills,  in  meadows  green. 

We  7iightly  dainc  our 
And  to  our  fairy  king  and  ((Ueen, 

We  eliant  our  moonlight  minstrelsies. 

When  larks  'gin  sing, 

Away  we  fling ; 
And  balies  new -horn  steal  as  we  go ; 

And  elf  in  bed 

We  leave  in  stead. 
And  wend  us  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin's  time,  have  I 

Tims  nightly  revelled  to  and  fro; 
And  for  my  ]uanks  men  call  me  by 
Tlie  name  (if  itobiu  Ooodfcllnw. 

Fiends,  ghosts,  and  s])rites, 

Wlio  haunt  tlie  niglits, 
The  liags  and  goblins  do  me  know; 

And  beldames  old 

My  feats  have  told, 
So  vale,  vale  ;  lio,  ho,  ho  I 


UNKNOWN. 

[Before  1649.] 
EDOM  O'  GORDON. 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 

When  the  wind  l)lew  shrill  and  cauld, 
Said  Kdom  0'  Gordon  to  his  men, 

"  We  maun  draw  to  a  hauld. 

"  And  whatna  hauld  sail  we  draw  to. 

My  merry  men  and  me? 
We  will  gae  to  tlui  house  of  the  Rodes, 

To  see  that  fair  ladye." 

The  lady  stood  on  her  castle  wa', 
Beheld  baith  dale  and  down; 

Thei'e  she  was  aware  of  a  host  of  men 
Came  riding  towards  the  town. 

"0  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men  a', 

0  see  ye  not  what  I  sec  ? 
Methinks  I  see  a  host  of  men  ; 

1  marvel  who  they  be." 

She  weened  it  had  been  her  lovely  lord, 

As  he  cam'  riding  hame  ; 
It  was  the  traitor,  Edom  o'  Gordon, 

Wha  recked  nor  sin  nor  shame. 

She  had  nae  sooner  buskit  her.sell. 

And  putten  on  her  gown. 
Till  Edom  o'  Gordon  an'  his  men 

Were  round  about  the  town. 

They  had  nae  sooner  supper  set, 

Nae  sooner  said  the  grace. 
But  Edom  o'  Gordon  an'  his  men 

Were  lighted  about  the  place. 

The  lady  ran  up  to  her  tower-head. 

As  fast  as  she  could  hie. 
To  see  if  by  her  fair  si)ecches 

She  could  wi'  him  agree. 

"  Come  doun  to  me,  ye  lady  gay, 
Come  doun,  come  doun  to  me ; 

This  night  sail  ye  Hg  within  mine  arms. 
To-morrow  my  luidc;  sail  be." 

"  1  winna  come  down,  ye  fause  Gordon, 
I  winna  come  down  to  thee; 

I  winna  forsake  my  ain  dear  lord,  — 
And  he  is  na  far  frae  me." 


UNKNOWN. 


23 


"  Gie  ovvre  your  house,  ye  lady  fair, 

Gie  owre  your  house  to  me ; 
Or  I  sail  burn  yoursell  therein, 

But  aud  your  babies  three." 

"  I  winna  gie  owre,  ye  fause  Gordon, 

To  nae  sic  traitor  as  thee ; 
And  if  ye  burn  my  ain  dear  babes, 

My  lord  sail  mak'  ye  dree. 

"Now  reach  my  pistol,  Glaud,  my  man, 
And  charge  ye  weel  my  gun  ; 

For,  but  an  I  pierce  that  bluidy  butcher. 
My  babes,  we  been  undone  !" 

She  stood  upon  her  castle  wa', 

And  let  twa  bullets  flee  : 
She  missed  that  bluidy  butcher's  heart, 

And  only  razed  his  knee. 

"Set  fire  to  the  house  !"  quo' fause  Gordon, 

Wud  wi'  dule  and  ire : 
"Fause  ladye,  ye  sail  rue  that  shot 

As  ye  burn  in  the  fire  !  " 

' '  Wae  worth,  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man  ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  fee ; 
Why  }iu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 

Lets  in  the  teek  to  me  ? 

"And  e'en  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man  ! 

1  paid  ye  weel  your  hire ; 
Why  pu'  }'e  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 

To  me  lets  in  the  fire?" 

"  Ye  paid  me  weel  my  hire,  ladye, 

Ye  paid  me  wf^el  my  fee : 
But  now  I  'm  Edom  o'  Gordon's  man,  — 

Maun  either  do  or  dee." 

0  then  bespake  her  little  son, 

Sat  on  the  nurse's  knee  : 
Says,  "0  mither  dear,  gie  owre  this  house, 

For  the  reek  it  smothers  me." 

"  I  wad  gie  a'  my  goud,  my  bairn, 

Sae  wad  I  a'  my  fee. 
For  ae  blast  o'  the  western  wind, 

To  blaw  the  reek  frae  thee." 

0  then  bespake  her  daughter  dear,  — 
She  was  baith  jimp  and  sma' : 

"  0  row'  me  in  a  pair  o'  sheets. 
And  tow  me  o'er  the  wa' !" 

They  row'd  her  in  a  pair  o'  sheets. 
And  tow'd  her  owre  the  wa' ; 


But  on  the  point  o'  Gordon's  spear 
She  gat  a  deadly  fa'. 

0  bonnie,  bonnie  was  her  mouth. 
And  cherry  were  her  cheeks, 

And  clear,  clear  was  her  yellow  hair, 
AVhereon  the  red  blood  dreeps. 

Then  wi'  his  spear  he  turned  her  owre  ; 

0  gin  her  face  was  wan  ! 

He  said,  "Ye  are  the  first  that  e'er 

1  wished  alive  again." 

He  cam'  and  lookit  again  at  her ; 

0  gin  her  skin  was  white  ! 

"  I  might  hae  spared  that  bonnie  face 
To  hae  been  some  man's  delight." 

"  Busk  and  boun,  my  merry  men  a'. 
For  ill  dooms  I  do  guess ;  — 

1  cannot  look  on  that  bonnie  face 

As  it  lies  on  the  grass." 

"  Wha  looks  to  freits,  my  master  dear. 

Its  freits  will  follow  them  ; 
Let  it  ne'er  be  said  that  Edom  o'  Gordon 

Was  daunted  by  a  dame." 

But  when  the  ladye  saw  the  fire 

Come  flaming  o'er  her  head. 
She  wept,  and  kissed  her  children  twain. 

Says,  "  Bairns,  we  been  but  dead." 

The  Gordon  then  his  bugle  blew. 

And  said,  "  Awa',  avva' ! 
This  house  o'  the  liodes  is  a'  in  a  flame ; 

1  hauld  it  time  to  ga'." 

And  this  way  lookit  her  ain  dear  lord, 

As  he  came  owre  the  lea ; 
He  saw  his  castle  a'  in  a  lowe, 

Sae  far  as  he  could  see. 

"  Put  on,  put  on,  my  wighty  men, 

As  fast  as  ye  can  dri'e  ! 
For  he  that 's  hindmost  o'  the  thrang 

Sail  ne'er  get  good  o'  me." 

Then  some  they  rade,  and  some  they  ran, 
Out-owre  the  grass  and  bent ; 

But  ere  the  foremost  could  win  up, 
Baith  lady  and  babes  were  brent. 

And  after  the  Gordon  he  is  gane, 

Sao  fast  as  he  might  dri'e ; 
And  soon  i'  the  Gordon's  foul  heart's  blude 

He  's  wroken  his  fair  ladye. 


24 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


T'NKNOWN. 

TAKE  THY  AULD  CLOAK  ABOUT  THEE. 

In  \viiit(T,  when  the  rain  rained  caiilil, 

And  IVti.st  anil  snow  were  on  tlie  hill, 
Ami  I'oreas  with  his  blasts  sae  baiild 

Was  thiiat'ninj;  all  our  kye  to  kill; 
Then  Hell,  my  wife,  wha  loves  not  strife, 

She  said  to  me  right  hastilie, 
"(Jet  np,  gademan,  save  Crummie's  life, 

And  take  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee  ! 

"Cow  Crummie  is  a  useful  cow. 

And  she  is  come  of  a  good  kin' ; 
Aft  has  she  wet  the  bairnies'  mou', 

And  I  am  laith  that  she  should  pine : 
Get  uji,  gudeman,  it  is  fu'  time  ! 

The  sun  shims  frae  the  lift  sae  hie; 
Sloth  never  made  a  gracious  end,  — 

l!ae,  take  tliy  auld  cloak  about  thee  !" 

"  My  cloak  was  once  a  gude  gray  cloak, 

When  it  was  litting  for  my  wear; 
IJut  now  it 's  seantly  worth  a  groat. 

For  I  hae  worn  't  this  thirty  year  : 
Let  's  sjiend  the  f^car  that  we  hae  won, 

We  little  ken  the  day  wc  '11  dee ; 
Then  I  '11  be  proud,  .since  I  hae  sworn 

To  hae  a  new  cloak  about  me." 

"  In  iliiys  when  our  King  Robert  reigned. 

His  breeches  cost  but  half  a  crown; 
He  s:ud  they  were  a  groat  too  dear, 

An<l  ea'd  the  tailor  thief  and  loun. 
Hi-  was  the  king  that  woie  the  crown, 

And  thou  the  man  of  low  decree  : 
It 's  pride  i)nts  a'  the  country  down, 

Sae  take  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee  !" 

"O  r.ell,  my  wife,  why  dost  thou  (lout? 

Now  is  now,  and  then  was  then. 
Seek  anywhere  the  woild  tliroughout. 

Thou  ken'st  not  clowns  from  gentle- 
men. 
They  are  clad  in  black,   green,  yellow, 
and  gray, 

Sae  fai-  above  their  ain  ilegree : 
(hire  in  my  life  I  'II  do  as  liny. 

For  I  '11  liave  a  new  cloak  abotit  me." 

•Mliideman,  I  wot  it's  thirty  year 
Sin"  we  <lid  am-  anither  ken. 

And  we  hae  had  at  ween  us  twa 
Of  lails  and  boniue  la.sses  ten  ; 

Now  they  are  wonn'n  grown  and  men, 
I  wish  and  pray  weel  may  they  be: 


If  thou  wilt  prove  a  good  luishand. 
E'en  take  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee." 

Bell,  my  wife,  she  loves  not  strife, 

But  she  will  rule  me  if  she  can : 
And  oft,  to  lead  a  quiet  life, 

I  'm  forced  to  yield,  though  I  'm  gude- 
man. 
It 's  }iot  for  a  man  with  a  W'oman   to 
threa])e 

Unless  he  first  give  o'er  the  plea  : 
As  we  began  so  will  we  leave. 

And  1  '11  take  my  auld  cloak  about  me. 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  BARRING  O'  THE  DOOR. 

It  fell  about  the  JIartinnias  time, 

And  a  f^ay  time  it  was  than, 
When   our   gudewife   got    puddings   to 
make. 

And  she  Boiled  them  in  the  pan. 

The  wind  sae  cauld  blew  east  and  north, 

It  blew  into  the  floor:. 
Quoth  our  gudeman  to  our  gudewife, 

"  Gae  out  and  bar  the  door  ! " 

"  My  hand  is  in  my  huswif's  kap, 

Gudcmnn,  as  ye  may  .see; 
An'  it  should  nae  be  barred  this  hundred 
year. 

It 's  no  be  barred  for  me." 

They  made  a  paction  'tween  them  twa, 

They  made  it  firm  and  sui-e. 
That  the  first  word  whae'er  should  speak 

Should  rise  and  bar  the  door. 

Then  by  there  came  twa  gentlemen 

At  twelve  o'clock  at  night  ; 
And  thev  could  neither  see  house  nor 
hall. 

Nor  coal  nor  candle  light. 

And  first  they  ate  the  white  puddings, 
And  then  tlicy  ate  the  black  ; 

Thougli  nnickle  thought  the  gudewife  to 
hersel', 
Yet  ne'er  a  word  .she  spak'. 

Then  said  the  one  unto  the  other, 
"Here,  man,  tak'  ye  my  knife  ! 


THOMAS    CAREW. — WILLIAM   BROWNE. 


25 


Do  j'e  tak'  aff  the  auld  man's  beard, 
And  1  '11  kiss  the  gudewife." 

"  But  there  's  nae  water  in  the  house, 
And  what  shall  we  do  tlian?" 

"  WJiat  ails  ye  at  the  puddiu'  broo 
That  boils  into  the  pan?" 

O,  uj)  then  started  our  gudeman, 

And  an  angry  man  was  he  : 
"  Will  ye  kiss  my  wife  before  my  een, 

And  scaud  me  wi'  puddin'  bree  ?  " 

Then  up  and  started  our  gudewife, 
Gied  three  skips  on  the  floor  : 

"Gudeman,  ye 've  spoken  the  foremost 
word,  — 
Get  up  and  bar  the  door ! " 


THOMAS  CAREW. 

[1589-1639.] 

HE  THAT  LOVES  A  ROSY  CHEEK. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek. 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires. 
Or  from  starlike  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  liis  fires  ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay. 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 
Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  witli  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires;  — 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despi;e 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 


WILLIAM  BROWNE. 

[1590- 1645.] 

THE  SIRENS'  SONG. 

Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines. 

All  beaten  mariners : 
Here  lie  undiscovered  mines, 

A  prey  to  passengers : 


Perfumes  far  sweeter  than  the  best 
That  make  the  phojnix  nrn  and  nest  : 

Fear  not  your  ships. 
Nor  any  to  oppose  you  save  our  lips : 

But  coTue  on  sliore. 
Where  no  joy  dies  till  love  has  gotten 

more. 

For  swelling  waves  our  panting  breasts, 
Where  never  storms  arise. 

Exchange  ;  and  be  awhile  our  guests : 
For  stars,  gaze  on  our  eyes. 

The  compass,  love  shall  hourly  sing. 

And,  as  he  goes  about  the  ring. 
We  will  not  miss 

To  tell  each  point  he  nameth  with  a  kiss. 


SONG. 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  awhile  to  nie, 
And  if  such  a  woman  move 

As  I  now  shall  versifv. 
Be  assured,  't  is  she,  or  none, 
That  1  love,  and  love  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  much  right, 
As  she  scorns  tlie  help  of  art. 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 
As  e'er  yet  embraced  a  heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 

To  make  known  how  much  she  hath ; 
And  lier  anger  flames  no  higher 

Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 
Full  of  pity  as  may  be. 
Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 

Reason  masters  every  sense. 

And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth : 

Lovely  as  all  excellence. 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth : 

Likelihood  enougli  to  prove 

Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  she  is  ;  and  if  you  know 
Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung,  — 

Be  she  brown,  or  fair,  or  so, 

That  she  be  but  somewhile  young, — 

Be  assured,  't  is  she,  or  none, 

That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 


26 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


SIR  ROBERT  AYTOK 

[1370-163S.] 

FAIR   AND   UNWORTHY. 

I  i)0  rf)iifcss  tlioii  'rt  siiKiotli  ami  fair, 
Ami  I   iiiigiit  liiive  gone  near  to  love 
thee,       • 
Had  I  not  found  the  liglitest  prayer 
Tliat  lijis  eonld  speak,  had  power  to 
move  thee  : 
r>iit  I  lan  ii't  thee  now  alone, 
As  worthy  to  be  loved  by  none. 

I  do  eonfess  tliou  'rt  sweet ;  yet  find 
Thee  such  an  unthiift  of  thy  sweets, 

Tliy  favors  are  but  like  the  wind, 
Tliat  kisses  everytiiing  it  meets; 

And  since  thou  canst  with  mop'  than  one, 

Thou  'rt  worthy  to  be  kissed  by  none. 

The  niorninfj  rose  that  untouched  stands 
Anned  with  lier  briers,   how    sweetly 
snii'ils  I 
But  jilucked  and  strained  tlnough  ruder 
hands, 
No  more  her  sweetness  with  her  rlwells, 
But  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone. 
And  leaves  fall  from  her,  one  by  one. 

Such  fate,  erelong,  will  thee  betide. 
When      thou      hast     handled     been 
awhile,  — 

Like  sere  liowers  to  be  thrown  aside : 
And  I  w  ill  sigh,  while  sonn'  will  smile, 

To  see  thy  love  for  more  than  one 

Hath  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by  none. 


AVILLIAM  STRODE. 
[1600- 1644.) 

MTJSIC. 

0  i.t'M,  me,  lull  me,  charming  air! 

.My  senses  rock  with  wonder  sweet: 
Like  snow  on  wool  tiiy  fallings  are  ; 
Soft,  like  II  spirit's,  are  thy  feet! 
(Jricf  who  iifi'd  fear 
'I'liat  Imtli  an  ear? 
])owM  let  liim  lie 
And  slumbering  ilie, 
And  change  ids  sou!  for  hurmony! 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

(About  1640.] 

GOOD-MORROW. 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft ;  mount,  larks,  aloft. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind. 

Notes  from  the  lark  I  'il  borrow ; 
Biril,  prune  tliy  Aving  ;  nightingale,  sing. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast ; 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow ; 
And  from  eadi  hill  let  music  slirill 

Give  my  lair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbiiil  and  thrusli  in  every  bush. 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-s|  ariow  ; 
You  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves, 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 


SEARCH  AFTER  GOD. 

I  SOUGHT  thee  round  about,  0  thou  my 
God ! 
In  thine  abode. 
I  said  unto  the  earth,  "Speak,  art  thou 
lie?" 
She  answered  me, 
"I  am  not."     1  incpiireil  of  creatures  all. 

In  general, 
Contained  therein.     They  with  one  voice 

])roclaim 
That  none  amongst  them  challenged  such 
a  name. 

I  a.sked  the  seas  and  all  tlie  deeps  below, 

My  God  to  know  ; 
I  asked  the  reptiles  and  whatever  is 

In  the  abyss,  — 
Even  from  tlie  shrimp  to  the  leviathan 

IiKpiiry  ran ; 
Hut  in  those  deserts  which  no  line  can 

sound. 
The  God  I  sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 

I  asked  the  air  if  that  were  he  !  but  lo  ! 

It  told  me  "No." 
I  frjim  the  towering  eagle  to  the  wren 

Demanded  then 
If  any  feathered  fowl  'mongst  them  were 
su<'h  ; 

But  they  all,  much 


HENRY   KING. 


27 


Offended  with  my  question,  in  full  choir, 
Answered,  "To  find  tliy  God  thou  must 
look  higher." 

I  asked  the  heavens,   sun,    moon,    and 
stars ;  but  they 
Said,  "  We  obey 
The  God  thou  seek  est."     I  asked  what 
eye  or  ear 
Could  see  or  hear, — • 
What  in  the  world  I  might  descry  or 
know 
Above,  below; 
With  an  unanimous  voice,  all  these  things 

said, 
"  We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  him  were 
made." 

I  asked  the  world's  great  universal  mass 

If  that  God  was; 
Which  with  a  mighty  and  strong  voice 
replied. 
As  stupefied,  — 
"  I  am  not  he,  0  man  !  for  know  that  I 

By  him  on  high 
Was  fashioned   first  of  nothing ;    thus 

instated 
And  swayed  by  him   by  whom  I  was 
created." 

I  sought  the  court ;  but  smooth-tongued 
flattery  there 
Deceived  each  ear ; 
In  the  thronged  city  there  was  selling, 
buying. 
Swearing,  and  lying; 
I'  the  country,  craft  in  simpleness  ar- 
rayed, 
And  then  I  snid,  — 
"  Vain  is  ray  search,  although  my  pains 

be  great ; 
Where  my  God  is  there  can  be  no  deceit." 

A  scrutiny  within  myself  I  then 

Even  thus  began : 
"  0  man,  what  art  thou  ? "     What  more 
could  I  say 

Than  dust  and  clay,  — 
Frail,  mortal,  fading,  a  mere  puff,  a  blast, 

Tliat  cannot  last ; 
Enthroned  to-day,  to-niori'ow  in  an  urn, 
Formed  from  that  earth  to  which  I  must 
return  ? 

I  asked  myself  what  this  great  God  might 
be 
That  fashioned  me. 


I    answered  :  The   all-potent,    sole,  im- 
mense. 
Surpassing  sense ; 
Unspeakable,  inscrutable,  eternal. 

Lord  over  all ; 
The  only  terrible,  strong,  just,  and  true, 
Wlio  hath  no  end,   and   no  beginning 
knew. 

He  is  the  well  of  life,  for  he  doth  give 

To  all  that  live 
Both  breath  and  being ;  he  is  the  Creator 

Both  of  the  water, 
Earth,  air,  and  tire.     Of  all  things  that 
subsist 
He  hath  the  list,  — ■ 
Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  earth 

claims. 
He  keeps  the  scroll,  and  calls  them  by 
their  names. 

Arid  now,  my  God,  by  thine  illumining 
grace, 
Thy  glorious  face 
(So  far  forth  as  it  may  discovered  be) 

Methinks  I  see  ; 
And  though  invisible  and  infinite. 

To  human  sight 
Thou,  in  thy  mercy,  justice,  truth,  ap- 

pearest, 
In  which,  to  our  weak  sense,  thou  comest 
nearest. 

0,  make  us  apt  to  seek  and  quick  to  find, 

Thou,  God,  most  kind  ! 
Give  us  love,  hope,  and  faith,  in  thee  to 
trust, 
Thou,  God,  most  just! 
Remit  all  our  offences,  we  entreat, 

]Most  good  !  most  great ! 
Grant  that  our  willing,  though  unworthy 

quest 
May,     through    thy    grace,    admit    us 
'mongst  the  blest. 


HENRY  KING. 

[isgi-  1669.] 

SIC  VITA. 

liiKE  to  the  falling  of  a  star. 

Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are ; 

Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 

Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew ; 


28 


tSONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Or  like  .1  wind  that  chafes  tlie  flood, 
Or  bubbk's  whicli  on  water  stood : 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in,  and  jiaid  to-night. 
Tlic  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies; 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies; 
Tin'  dew  dries  up,  the  star  is  shot ; 
The  llight  is  past,  —  and  man  forgot. 


ELEGY. 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed, 

Never  to  be  disijuieted  ! 

My  last  good  night !    Thou  wilt  not  wake 

Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake; 

Till  age,  or  grii-f,  or  sickness  must 

Marry  my  body  to  tliat  dust 

It  so  nuicli  loves,  and  till  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

Stay  for  me  there  !    I  will  not  fail 
To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 
And  think  not  much  of  my  delay: 
1  am  already  on  the  way. 
And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 
Desire  can  make,  or  sorrow  breeti. 
Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 
Ami  every  hour  a  stej)  towards  thee. 
At  night,  when  1  betake  to  rest, 
Next  morn  1  rise  neaier  my  west 
<^f  life,  almost  by  eight  hours'  sail, 
Th;in  wlien  sleep  breathed  liisdrowsygale. 
Thus  from  the  sun  my  vessel  steers. 
And  niy  day's  cotnpass  downward  bears: 
Nor  labor  I  to  stem  the  tide 
Through  which  to  thee  I  swiftly  glide. 

'T  is  true,  with  shame  and  giief  1  yielil, 
Thou,  like  the  van,  first  took'st  the  field. 
And  gotten  hast  the  victory, 
In  tlins  adventuring  to  die- 
Before  me,  whose  more  years  might  crave 
A  just  preeedi-nce  in  the  grave. 
r>ut  hark  I  my  pulse,  like  n  soft  drum, 
Heats  my  approneh,  tells  thee  I  come: 
.\nd  slow  howeVr  my  marches  be, 
I  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  thee. 

The  thoui;ht  of  tills  liids  me  go  on, 

And  wait  my  dissolution 

^Vith  hope  iind  conifort.     Dear,  forgive 

Tlie  erinie,        I  am  ennteni  to  live 

Divided,  with  but  half  a  he;irt, 

Till  wc  shall  meet,  and  never  part. 


MARQUIS  OF  MOXTPtOSE. 

[1612-1650.] 

I'LL  NEVER  LOVE  THEE  MORE. 

Mv  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  .governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchy : 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part. 

Which  virtuous  souls  a])hor, 
I  '11  call  a  synod  in  my  heart. 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

As  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone ; 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much. 

Or  his  deserts  are  small. 
Who  dares  not  ]>ut  it  to  the  touch, 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 


JAMES  SHIELEY. 

[1396- 1666.] 

DEATH  THE  LEVELLER. 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings : 
Sceptre  and  crown 
!Must  tumble  down. 
And  in  the  dust  be  eijual  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And   ]ilaiit    fresh    laurels  where  they 
kill; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield  ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate,    . 
Andnnistgiveup  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow ; 

Then  boast  nomore  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Up«in  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor- victim  bleeds: 


SIR    THOMAS    BROWNE. RICHARD    CRASHAW. 


29 


Your  heads  must  come 

To  the  cold  tomb  ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 


EDAVARD  HERBERT,  (EARL  OF 
CHEP^BURY.) 


[1581-1648] 


CELINDA. 


Walkixg  thus  towards  a  pleasant  grove, 

Which  did,  it  seemed,  in  new  delight 

The  pleasures  of  the  time  unite 

To  give  a  triumph  to  their  love,  — 

They  stayed  at  last,  and  on  the  grass 

Eeposed  so  as  o'er  his  breast 

She  bowed  her  gracious  head  to  rest, 

Such  a  weight  as  no  burden  \\as. 

Long  their  fixed  eyes  to  heaven  bent, 

Unchanged  they  did  never  move, 

As  if  so  great  and  pure  a  love 

No  glass  but  it  could  represent. 

"  These  eyes  again  thine  eyes  shall  see, 

Thy  hands  again  these  hands  infold. 

And  all  chaste  pleasures  can  be  told. 

Shall  with  us  everlasting  be. 

Let  then  no  doulit,  Celinda,  touch. 

Much  less  your  fairest  mind  invade ; 

Were  not  our  souls  immortal  made, 

Our  equal  loves  can  make  them  such." 


SIR  THOMAS  BROAVNE. 
[1605 -1682.] 

EVENING  HYMN. 

The  night  is  come ;  like  to  the  day, 
Depart  not  thou,  gieat  God,  awav. 
Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night, 
Eclipse  the  lustre  of  thy  light. 
Keep  in  my  horizon  :  for  to  me 
The  sun  makes  not  the  day,  but  thee. 
Thou  whose  nature  cannot  sleep. 
On  my  temples  sentry  keep: 
Guard  me  'gainst  those  watchful  foes. 
Whose  eyes  are  open  while  mine  close. 
Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest 
But  such  as  Jacob's  temples  blest. 


Whilst  I  do  rest,  m}^  soul  advance ; 

Make  my  sleej)  a  holy  trance  : 

That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 

Awake  into  some  holy  thought, 

And  with  as  active  vigor  run 

My  course,  as  doth  the  nimbly  sun. 

Sleep  is  a  death ;  0,  make  me  try, 

By  sleeping,  what  it  is  to  die : 

And  as  gently  lay  my  head 

On  my  grave  as  now  my  bed. 

Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 

Awake  again  at  last  with  thee. 

And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 

Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 

These  are  my  drowsy  days ;  in  vain 

I  do  now  wake  to  sleeji  again  : 

0,  come  that  hour  when  I  shall  never 

Sleep  thus  again,  but  wake  forevei". 


RICHARD  CRASHAW. 

[1605- 1650.] 

WISHES. 

Whoe'er  she  be. 

That  not  impossible  She 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me ; 

Where'er  she  lie. 

Locked  up  fi'om  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny, 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth. 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth ; 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine ; 

—  Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 

Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses. 

And  be  ye  called,  my  absent  kisses, 

I  wish  her  beauty 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie  : 

Something  more  than 

Taffeta  or  tissue  can. 

Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 


30 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


A  dice  that 's  Lest 

Hy  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  connnand  the  rest : 

A  face  made  up 

Out  of  no  otlier  shop 

Tliun  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

Sydnciau  showers 
Of  sweet  diseouise,  whose  powers 
Can  crown  old  AVinter's  head  with  flow- 
ers. 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  day's  forehead  bright 

Or  give  down  to  the  w  ings  of  night. 

Soft  silken  hours,    . 

Open  suns,  siiady  bowers ; 

'Bove  aj[l,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow 

P'rom  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow : 

Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  liglit 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

Life,  that  dares  send 
A  oiiallenge  to  his  end  ; 
And   when  it  conies,  says,   "  Welcome, 
friend." 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes ;  and  I  wish  —  no  more. 

—  Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

"Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows ; 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see: 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

'T  is  She,  and  here 

Lo  !  I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  wi.shes'  cloudy  character. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Sliull  fix  my  (lying  wishes. 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

I,et  her  full  glorv. 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye; 

Be  ye  my  fictions:  —  but  her  story. 


SIR  RICHARD  LOVELACE. 

[1618-1658.] 

TO  ALTHEA. 

When  love  with  unconfined  AA-ings 

Hovers  within  my  gates. 
And  my  divine  Altliea  brings 

To  whis])er  at  my  grates  ; 
When  I  lie  tanglwl  in  her  hair, 

And  fctteicd  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  ]irison  make, 

Nor  iron  liais  a  cage  ; 
Jlind.s  innocent  and  (piiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  ni}'  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free,  — 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


TO  LUCASTA, 

Tf.i.l  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast,  and  quiet  mind. 

To  war  and  arms  1  fly. 

True  :  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
Ami  with  a  sti'onger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such. 

As  you  too  shall  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much. 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 


ROBERT  HERRICK. 

[1591-1674.] 

TO  DAFFODILS. 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  w-eep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon : 

As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon  ; 
Stay,  stay, 


GEORGE  HERBERT. 


31 


Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even  song ; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

"We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay. 
As  you,  or  anything. 
We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

A  way 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain. 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past, 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile, 

To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What !  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight. 
And  so  to  bid  good-niglit? 

'T  was  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 
Merely  to  siiow  your  worth. 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  tilings  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave  ; 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 

Like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 

Into  the  grave. 


TO  KEEP  A  TRUE  LENT. 

Is  this  a  fast,  to  keep 
The  larder  lean, 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour. 
Or  rag'd  to  go, 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour? 


No :  't  is  a  fast  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 
And  meat, 
Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate 
And  hate ; 
To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent ; 
To  starve  thy  sin. 
Not  bin : 
And  that 's  to  keep  thy  Lent. 


GEORGE  HERBERT. 
[1593-1633.] 

VIRTUE. 

Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave. 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  Spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  wliere  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes. 
And  all  must  die. 

Onlj'  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul. 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal. 
Then  chiefiy  lives. 


THE  FLOWER. 

How   fresli,  0  Lord,  how  sweet  and 
clean 
Are  thy  returns !  e'en  as  the  flowers  in 
spring; 
To  which,  besides  their  own  demesne, 
The  late-past  frosts  tributes  of  pleasure 
bring. 
Grief  melts  away 
Like  snow  in  May, 
As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 


32 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Who  would  have  thought  my  shnv- 
elh'd  lieart 
Could  havL-  recovered  greenness  ?   It  was 
gone 
Quite  under  ground ;  as  flowers  depart 
To  see  tlu-ir  mother-root,  when  they  have 
111  own  ; 
Wlicre  they  together, 
All  tlie  hard  weather, 
Dead  to  the  ^world,  keep  house   un- 
known! 

These  are  thy  wonders,  Loni  of  power. 
Killing  and  quickening,  bringing  down 
to  hell 
And  up  to  heaven  in  an  hour; 
Making  a  diiniing  ol'  a  passing  bell. 
We  say  amiss. 
This  or  that  is : 
Thy  word  is  all,  if  we  could  spell. 

O  that  I  once  past  changing  were. 
Fast  in  thy  Paradise,  where  no  flower 
can  wither ! 
^lanv  a  spring  1  shoot  up  fair 
Ollering  at  heaven,  growing  and  groan- 
ing thither ;  . 
Nor  doth  my  flower 
Want  a  spring-shower. 
My  sins  and  I  joining  together. 

But  while  I  grow  in  a  straight  line, 
Still   upwards    bent,  as  if  heaven  were 
mine  own. 
Thy  anger  comes,  and  I  decline  : 
What  frost  to  that  ?  wliat  pole  is  not  the 
zone 
Wliere  all  things  burn. 
When  thou  dost  turn. 
And  the  least  frown  of  thine  is  shown  ? 

And  now  in  age  I  bud  again. 
After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  wiite ; 
I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing :  0  my  only  Light, 
It  cannot  be 
That  I  am  he 
On  whom  thy  tempests  fell  all  night. 

Tliesp  are  thy  wonders,  Lord  of  love, 
To  make  us  see  we  are  l)iit  flowers  that 
glide ; 
Which   when  we  once   can   find  and 
.     prove, 
Thou  hnst  a  garden  for  us,  where  to  bide. 
Who  would  be  morn, 
Swelling  through  store, 
Forfeit  their  Paradise  by  tlieir  pride. 


REST. 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by, 
"Let us,"  said  he,  "pour  on  him  all  we 

can : 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie. 

Contract  into  a  span." 

So  strength  first  made  a  way ; 
Then  beauty  flowed;  then  wisdom,  honor, 

]iieasure : 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  his  treasure. 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

"  For  if  I  should,"  said  he, 
"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  my  creature. 
He  would  adore  my  gifts  instead  of  me, 
And  restin  nature,  not  the  God  of  nature ; 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

"Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest. 
But  keepthem  with  repining  restlessness : 
Let  him  be  rieli  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  my  breast." 


HENRY  YAUGHAN. 

[1614 -1695.] 

THE  BIRD. 

Hither  thou  com'st.     The  busy  wind 

all  night 
Blew  through   thy  lodging,  where   thy 

own' warm  wing 
Thy  pillow  was.     Many  a  sullen  storm, 
For  which  coaise  man  seems  nuuli  tlie 
fitter  born. 
Plained  on  thy  bed 
And  liarndess  head ; 

And  now,  as  fresh  and  cheerful  as  the 

light, 
Tliy  little  heart  in  early  hymns  doth  sing 
I'nto  tliat  Providence  whose  unseen  arm 
Curbed  them,  and  clothed  thee  well  and 

warm. 
All  things  thirt  be  praise  Him  ;  and  had 
Their   lesson'  taught    them    when    first 

made. 

So  hills  and  valleys  into  singing  break  ; 
And  tliough    poor   stones  have  neither 
speech  nor  tongue, 


GEORGE   WITHER. 


33 


While  active  winds  and  streams  both  run 

and  speak, 
Yet  stones  are  deep  in  admiration. 
Thus  praise  and  prayer  here  beneath  the 

sun 
^lake  lesser   mornings,  when  the  great 

are  done. 

For  each  inclosed  spirit  is  a  star 

Iiiliglitning  his  own  little  sphere, 
Whose  light,  though  fetcht  and  borrowed 
fioni  far. 
Both   mornings   makes   and  evenings 
there. 

But  as  these  birds  of  light  make  a  land 
glad. 
Chirping  their  solemn  matins  on  each 

tree  ; 
So  in  the  shades  of  night  some  dark 
fowls  be. 
Whose  heavy  notes  make  all  that  Iiear 
them  sad. 

The  turtle  then  in  palm-trees  mourns. 
While  owls  and  satyrs  howl ; 

The  ]ileasant  land  to  brimstone  turns. 
And  all  her  streams  grow  foul. 

■ 

Brightness  and  mirth,  and  love  and  faith, 

all  Hy, 
Till  the  day-spring   breaks  forth  again 

from  high. 


THEY  ARE  ALL  GONE. 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill 
is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days  ; 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and 
hoary. 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

i» 
0  holy  hope !  and  high  humility,  — 
High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 


These   are   your   walks,  and   you   have 
showed  them  me 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  death,  —  the  jewel  of  the 
just,  — 
Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  th}-  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  tliat  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's 
Tiest  may  know. 
At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in 
now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And   yet,    as   angels   in   some    brighter 
dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our 
wonted  themes. 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb. 
Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn 
tliere ; 
But  when  the  hand  that  lockt  her  up 
gives  room. 
She'll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

0  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

(treated  glories  under  thee  ! 
Resume  thv  spirit  from    this  world  of 
thrail 
Into  true  liberty ! 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot 
and  fill 
My  perspective  still  as  they  pass; 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


GEORGE  WITHER. 

[15S8-1667.] 

FOR  ONE  THAT  HEARiS  HIMSELF 
MUCH  PRAISED.  ' 

My  sins  and  follies,  Lord  !  by  thee 

From  others  hidclen  are, 
That  such  good  words  are  spoke  of  me, 

As  now  and  then  I  hear ; 


34 


SONGS    OF   TIinEE    CENTUKIES. 


For  sure  if  othersi  knew  nic  such, 

Such  iis  iiiysult"  1  know, 
I  fsliould  h^ivf  liccii  ilispniised  as  much 

As  1  am  inai.sc'il  iiuw. 

Tlic  jiraiso,  therefore,  wliieh  I  liave  heard, 

l)(liglits  not  so  my  iniml. 
As  those  thiii<js  make  my  heart  afeard, 

Wliieh  ill  myself  I  find: 
And  I  hud  rather  to  he  blamed, 

So  I  Were  lilameless  made, 
Tliaii  for  much  virtue  to  be  famed, 

\\  lull  1  IK)  virtues  had. 

Tliouph  shiiiders  to  an  innocent 

Sometimes  (h)  bitter  grow, 
Their  bitterness  inocuies  content. 

If  clear  liiiiiseif  lie  know. 
And  when  a  virtuous  man  hath  erred, 

If  jiraised  himself  lie  hear. 
It  makes  him  f,'rieve,  and  more  afeard, 

Tliaii  it  he  slandered  were. 

Lord  !  therefore  make  my  heart  upright, 

A\  hate'er  my  deeds  do  seem  ; 
And  ii,;,diteous  rather  in  thy  sight, 

Tliaii  in  til'-  world's  esteem. 
A  til]  if  alight  good  ajjpear  to  he 

In  any  act  of  mine. 
Let  thaiiklulness  be  found  in  me, 

And  all  the  praise  be  thine. 


COtlPANIONSHIP  OF  THE  MUSE. 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 
Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow; 
Makes  the  desolatest  place 
To  her  jncsetice  be  a  grace. 
And  the  lilackest  discontents 
r.e  her  fairest  ornaments. 
Ill  my  former  days  of  l)li.ss, 
Her  divine  .skill  taught  me  this. 
That  from  everything  I  .saw 
I  could  .some  invention  draw, 
And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height, 
Through  the  meanest  object's  .sight, 
I>y  tlie  murmur  of  a  spring. 
Or  tlie  least  bnngii's  ru.stleing. 
IW  a  dai.sy,  who.se  leaves  sjiread, 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed; 
f)r  a  shady  bush  or  tree, 
She  could  more  iiifii.se  in  nie. 
Than  all  nature's  beauties  can 
Jn  some  other  wiser  man. 


By  her  help  I  also  now 
Make  this  churlish  place  allow 
Some   things   that   may   sweeten    glad- 
ness. 
In  the  very  gall  of  .sadness. 
The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade, 
That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made; 
The  strange  music  of  the  waves, 
Beating  on  these  hollow  caves; 
This  black  den  which  rocks  emboss, 
Overgrown  with  eldest  moss ; 
The  rude  portals  that  give  light 
More  to  terror  than  delight; 
This  my  chamber  of  neglect, 
Walled  about  with  disrespect,  — 
From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 
A  fit  object  for  des2)air, 
She  hath  taught  me  by  her  might 
To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 
Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss, 
I  will  cherish  thee  for  this. 
Poe-sy,  thou  sweet'.st  content 
That  e'er  heaven  to  mortals  lent : 
Though  they  as  a  trille  leave  thee. 
Whose  dull   thoughts   cannot   conceive 

thee ; 
Though  thou  be  to  them  a  scorn, 
That  to  naught  but  earth  are  horn, — 
Let  my  life  no  longer  l)e 
Than  I  am  in  love  with  thee ! 


ANDREW  MArtYELL. 

[1620- 1678.] 

THOUGHTS  IN  A  GARDEN. 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 
To  win  the  jialm,  the  oak,  or  bays : 
And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned    from    some     single    lierh   or 

tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  .shade 
Does  jirudeiitly  tlieir  toils  upbraid; 
While   all    the     flowers    and    trees    do 

close. 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  rejiose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here. 
And  Innocence,  thy  si.ster  dear?  . 
Jlistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  com]ianies  of  men. 
Your  .sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  these  plants  will  grow. 


JOHN   MILTON. 


35 


Society  is  all  hut  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name. 
Little,  alas,  they  know  or  heed, 
How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed ! 
Fair  trees  I  where'er  your  barks  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

Wliat  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Eipc  ap])les  drop  about  my  head. 
Tlie  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine. 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  ])each. 
Into  niy  hands  themselves  do  reach. 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Insnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass, 
ileanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 
Withdraws  into  its  liappiness,  — 
Tlie  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  I'esemblance  lind; 
Yet  it  creates  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas; 
Annihilating  all  that 's  made 
To  a  green  tliought  in  a  green  shade. 
Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot. 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside. 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide  ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings,' 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  \nngs. 
And,  till  prepared  fi)r  longer  flight,^ 
"Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  the  happy  garden  state, 
While    7nan    there    walked   without    a 

mate: 
After  a  jilace  so  pure  and  sweet, 
AVhat  otiier  help  could  yet  be  meet ! 
But  't  was  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there : 
Two  paradises  are  in  one, 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new  ! 
Wlu-re,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run  : 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
]low  could  such  sweet   and  wholesome 

hours 
Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flow- 
ers? 


THE  BERMUDAS. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied. 
From  a  small  boat  that  rowed  along. 
The  listening  winds  received  this  sono- : 
"  What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Where  he  the  huge  sea  monsteVs  racks. 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs. 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown. 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage. 
Safe  from  the  storms  and  prelates'  rage. 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  sprnig 
Which  here  enamels  everythino-, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care. 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  ])omegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
.And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet. 
With  apples,  plants  of  such  a  price. 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars,  chosen  by  his  hand, 
From  Lebanon  he  stores  the  land  ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar, 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
Tlie  gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 
0,  let  our  voice  his  pi'aise  exalt, 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault, 
Which  then  perhajis  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexic  bay." 

Thus  sang  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime. 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 


JOHN  MILTON. 

[1608- 1674.] 

HYMN  ON  THE  NATIVITY. 

It  was  the  winter  wild. 
While  the  heaven-born  child 

All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger 
lies; 
Nature,  in  awe  of  him, 


30 


SONGS   OF   THKEE   CENTURIES. 


Hail  iloflVd  her  gaudy  trim, 

Willi  hergrcat  Master  so  to  sympathize : 
It  Wiif^  110  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  para- 
mour. 

Only  with  siieeches  fair 

She  wooes  the  gentle  air. 

To  hi^Je  her  guilty  front  with  innocent 
snow ; 

Anil  on  her  naked  shame, 

Tolhite  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden-white  to 
throw ; 

Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deform- 
ities. 

]')Ut  he,  her  fears  to  cease. 

Sent  down  tlie  meek-eyed  Peace  : 

She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came 

softly  sliding 
r)own  througli  the  turning  sphere. 
His  rrady  harliinger, 

^Vith  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds 

dividing; 
An4,  waving  wide' her  myrtle  wand. 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea 

and  land. 

No  war  or  battle's  sound 
"Was  heaiil  the  world  around  : 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up- 
hung; 
The  liooki'd  chariot  stood 
I'nstaiiicd  with  hostile  lilood; 

The  trumjiet  spake  not  to  the  armed 
throng; 
Ami  kings  sat  .still  with  awful  e^-e. 
As  if  thry  surely  knew  their  sovereign 
lord  was  l>y. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night, 
"Will  rein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  ri'ign  of  jieaceupontheearth began  : 
The  winds,  with  wontler  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 

Wliispfiing  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
^Vlio  now  hath  ipiiti'  forgot  to  lave, 
^Vllll(•  birds  of  liilm  sit  brooding  on  the 
ehamied  wave. 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze. 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bi'ndiiig  one  way  their  juecious  influ- 
eiire  ; 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 


For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or   Lucifer    had   oftea   warned    them 
thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow, 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid 
them  go. 

And,  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room. 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted 
S])eed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame. 
As  his  inferior  flame 

The   new-enlightened  world  no  more 
should  need ; 
He  saw  a  greater  sun  apjiear 
Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axle- 
tree,  coidd  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn. 

Or  ere  tlie  point  of  dawn, 
Sat  simjily  chatting  in  a  rustic  row  ; 

Full  little  thought  they  then 

That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  be- 
low ; 

Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep. 

Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so 
busy  keep. 

"When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet. 

As  never  was  by  mortal  fingers  strook, 
Divinely  warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stiinged  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture 
took : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose. 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each 
heavenly  close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  liollow  round 

Of    Cynthia's    seat,    the    airy   region 
thrilling, 
Now  was  alnmst  won. 
To  tliink  her  part  was  done. 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last 
fulfilling; 
She  knew  such  hannony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier 
union. 

At  la.st  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 

That  with  long  beams  the  shame-faci'd 
night  arrayfd  ; 
The  helmed  cherubim, 


JOHN   MILTON. 


37 


And  swordecl  seraphim, 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings 

displayed, 
Harping  iu  loud  and  solemn  quire, 
With   unexpressive  notes,   to   Heaven's 

Uew-born  heir. 

Such  music  as  't  is  said 
Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning 

sung. 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges 

hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep. 
And  bid  .the  weltering  waves  their  oozy 

channel  keep. 

Eing  out,  ye  crj'stal  spheres. 
Once  bless  our  human  ears. 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time  ; 

And  let  the  bass  of  Heaven's  deep  organ 
l)low ; 
And,  with  your  ninefold  harmony, 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  sym- 
phony. 

For,  if  such  holy  song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long. 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age 

of  gold ; 
And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die. 

And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly 

mould ; 
And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away. 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the 

peering  day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men. 

Orbed  in  a  rainbow ;  and,  like  glories 

wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between. 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds 

down  steering ; 
And  H(!aven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates   of  her  high 

palace  hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  no. 
This  must  not  yet  be  so ; 

The  balie  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 


Must  redeem  our  loss, 

So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify  : 
Yet  first,  to  those  ycliaiued  in  sleep. 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder 
through  the  deep, 

Vv''ith  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 

While   the  red   fire  and  smouldering 

clouds  outbrake ; 
The  aged  earth  agliast, 
With  terror  of  that  blast. 

Shall   from  the  surface  to  the  centre 

shake ; 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall 

spread  his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss. 
Full  and  peifect  is. 

But  now  begins  ;  for,  from  this  happy 
day. 
The  old  dragon,  underground. 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway ; 
.'Vnd,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail. 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb  ; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words 

deceiving.  . 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine. 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos 

leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell. 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest   from   the 

prophetic  cell. 

The  lonelj'  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice   of  weeping   heard  and  loud 
lament ; 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale. 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled 
thickets  mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth. 
And  on  the  holy  hearth. 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  mourn  with  mid- 
night plaint. 
In  urns  and  altars_ round, 


38 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


A  drear  and  dyinfj  sound 

AllVi^'lits  the  Flanit'ns  at  their  service 

quaint; 
And  the  ehill  inarlile  st-ems  to  sweat, 
While  eaeh  ]i(!culiar  power  loivgoes  his 

wonted  seat. 

IVor  and  ]?aalim 
Forsake  tlieir  temples  dim 

With  that  twice-battered  God  of  Pales- 
tine ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  liotli, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with   tapers'    holy 
sliine ; 
The  Libyae  Hammon  shrinks  liis  horn  ; 
In  vain  tiie  Tvrian  maids  their  wounded 
Thannnuz  mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloeh,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue: 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  danee  about  the  furnace  blue : 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Meinpliian  grove  or  green, 

Tram))iiiig  the  unshowercd  grass  with 
lowings  Igud  ; 
Nor  ran  lie  In-  at  rest 
Witiiin  liis  saer('(l  chest, 

Nauglit  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his 
shroud ; 
In  vain  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark 
The  salilc-stoleil  sorcerers  bear  his  wor- 
shipped ark. 

He  feels  from  Judah's  land 
The  dri'aded  infant's  hand, 
"The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky 

eyne; 
Nor  all  th(!  gods  lieside 
Longer  dare  al)ide. 

Not  Typhon    huge   ending   in   snaky 

twine; 
Our  balie,  to  show  his  Godhead  true. 
Can  in  his  swaddling  liands  control  the 

damned  crew. 


Troop  to  the  infernal  jail. 

Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several 

grave  ; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their 

moon-loved  maze. 

Rut  see,  the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  bal>e  to  rest ; 

Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here 
have  ending : 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 

Hath  fixed  her  polished  car. 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp 
attending ; 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 

Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  ser- 
viceable. 

SONNETS. 

ON  ARRIVING  AT  THE  AGE  OF  TWENTY- 
THREE. 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief 
of  youth. 
Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twen- 

tieth  year! 
My  hasting  days  lly  on  with  full  cai'eer. 
But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom 
showeth. 
Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the 
truth. 
That  1  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near. 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less 

ajipear. 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits 
endu'th. 
Yet,  be  it,  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 
It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  howevermeaii  orlijoh, 
Toward   which  Time  leads  me,  and  the 
will  of  Heaven ; 
All  is,  if  1  have  grace  to  use  it  so. 
As  ever  in  my  great  Taskmaster's  eye. 


So,  when  the  sun  in  b«il. 
Curtained  with  cloudy  nd. 

Pillows  his  ihin  n|Miii  an  orient  wave, 
The  Hocking  .shadows  pale 


ON   HIS  BLINDNESS. 

WnKN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent, 
Ere  half  my  days  in  "this  dark  woild 

and  wide. 

And  that  one  talent,  wdiich  is  death  to 
hide. 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 

more  bent 
To  serve  therewith*my  Maker,  and  present 


THOMAS   ELWOOD.  —  SIR   ROGER  l'ESTRANGE. 


39 


My   true   account,    lest   he  returning 

chide ; 
"Doth    God    exact    day-labor,    light 

denied?" 
I  fondly  ask  :  but  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth 

not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts  :  \who 

best 
Bear  his  mild   yoke,  they  serve  him 

best :  his  state 
Is  kingly ;   thousands  at  his  bidding 

speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean   without 

rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and 

wait." 


THOMAS  ELWOOD. 
[1639- 1713.] 

PKAYER. 

Unto  the  glory  of  thy  Holy  Name, 
Eternal  God  !  whom  I  l)oth  love  and  fear. 
Here  bear  I  witness  that  I  never  came 
Before   thy   throne  and    found    thee 

loath  to  hear, 
But,  ever  ready  with  an  open  eir. 
And  though  sometimes  thou  seem'st  thy 

face  to  hide 
As  one  that  hath  his  love  withdrawn 

from  me, 
'Tis  that  my  faith  may  to  the  full  be 

tried. 
And  I  thereby  may  only  better  see 
How  weak  I  am  when  noO  upheld  by 

Thee. 


RICHARD  BAXTER. 

[1615- 1691.] 

RESIGNATION. 

Lord,  it  belongs  not  to  my  care, 

Whether  I  die  or  live : 
To  love  and  serve  thee  is  my  share. 

And  this  thy  grace  must  give. 
If  life  be  long,  I  will  be  glad. 

That  I  may  long  obej' ; 
If  short,  yet  why  should  I  be  sad 

To  soar  to  endless  day  ? 


Christ  leads  me  through  no  darker  rooms 

Than  he  went  tlirough  before ; 
He  that  into  God's  kingdom  comes 

Must  enter  by  his  door. 
Come,   Lord,  when  grace  has  made  me 
meet 

Thy  blessed  face  to  see  ; 
For  if  thy  work  on  earth  be  sweet, 

What  will  thy  glory  be  ? 

Then  shall  I  end  my  sad  complaints. 

And  weary,  sinful  days; 
And  join  with  the  triumphant  saints 

That  sing  Jehovah's  praise. 
]\Iy  knowledge  of  that  life  is  small, 

The  eye  of  faith  is  dim  ; 
But  't  is  enough  that  Christ  knows  all, 

And  I  shall  be  with  him. 


SIR  ROGER  L'ESTRANGE. 

[1616- 1704.] 

IN  PRISON. 

Beat  on,  proud  billows ;  Boreas,  blow ; 
Swell,    curled  waves,   high  as  Jove's 
roof ; 
Your  incivility  doth  show 

That  innocence  is  tempest  proof; 
Though  surly  Nereus  frown,  my  thoughts 

are  calm ; 
Then  strike.  Affliction,  for  thy  wounds 
are  balm. 

That  which  the  world  miscalls  a  jail 

A  private  closet  is  to  me ; 
Whilst  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail. 

And  innocence  my  liberty: 
Locks,  bars,  and  solitude  together  met. 
Make  me  no  prisoner,  but  an  anchoret. 

I,  whilst  I  wisht  to  be  retired. 

Into  this  private  room  was  turned; 

As  if  their  wisdoms  had  conspired 
The  salamander  should  be  burned  ; 

Or  like  those  sophists,  that  would  drown 
a  hsh, 

I  am  constrained  to  suffer  what  I  wish. 

The  cynic  loves  his  povertj' ; 

The  pelican  her  wilderness; 
And  't  is  the  Indian's  pride  to  be 

Naked  on  frozen  Caucasus : 


40 


SONGS   OF   THREE   ©EXTURIES. 


Contentment   cannot   smart ;   stoics  Ave 

see 
ilake  torments  easier  to  their  apathy. 

Tlii-se  iiiMiiaclcs  upon  my  arm 
I  as  my  mistress'  Cavors  wear; 

Ami  For  to  kt'e[)  my  ankles  warm 
1  have  some  iron  shaekles  there: 

Tiiese  walls  are  but  my  garrison  ;  this  cell, 

^Vhieh  men  call  jail,  doth  prove  my  cit- 
adel. 

I  'm  in  the  cabinet  lockt  \yi, 

Like  some  liii,'h-prize(l  margarite, 

Or,  like  the  Great  Mogul  or  Pope, 
Am  cloistered  up  tioin  public  sight : 

IJetiredni-ss  is  a  piece  of  majest}', 

And  thus,  proud  sultan,  I  'ni  as  great  as 
thee. 

Here  sin  for  want  of  foo<l  must  starve, 
Where  tempting  objects  are  not  .seen; 

And  these  stioug  walls  do  only  serve 
To  keep  vice  out,  and  keep  me  in  : 

^lalice  of  late  's  grown  charitable  sure ; 

I  'm  not  committed,  but  am  kept  secure. 

• 
So  he  that  struck  at  Jason's  life. 

Thinking    t'    have  made   his  purpose 
sure, 
By  a  malicious  friendly  knife 

Did  only  wound  him  to  a  cure. 
Jlaliee,    I   see,   wants  wit;  for  what  is 

meant 
ilischief,  ofttimes  proves   favor  by  the 
event. 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale, 
\  ]>risoner  like,  eoojit  in  a  cage. 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale, 

In  that  her  narrow  hermitage? 
Even  then    her  charming  meloily   doth 

jirove 
That  all  her  bars  are  trees,  her  cage  a 
grove. 

I  nni  that  bii-d,  whom  they  combine 

Thus  to  deprive  of  liberty; 
I'ut  though  they  do  my  corps  confine, 

Yet  maiigre  hate,  my  soul  is  free: 
And  tliougji  immured,  yet  can  1  chirp, 

and  sing 
Disgrace  to  rebels,  glory  to  my  king. 

ily  soul  is  free  as  ambient  air. 

Although  my  baser  jiart  's  immured, 


Whilst  loyal  thoughts  do  still  repair 

T'  accompany  my  solitude  : 
Although  rebellion  do  my  body  bind. 
My  king  alone  can  captivate  my  mind. 


EDMUND  WALLER. 

[1605- 1687.] 

OLD  AGE  AND  DEATH. 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give 

o'er ; 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no 

more. 
For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to 

boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  too  certain  to  be  lost. 

Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 

Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  de- 
scries. 

The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and 
decayed. 

Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that 
time  has  made. 

Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become. 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,   both  worlds  at  once 

they  view, 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the 

new. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 

[1618-1667.] 

OF  MYSELF. 

This  onlv  grant  me,  that  my  means  may 

lie 
Too  low  for  envy,  for  contempt  too  high. 

Some  honor  I  would  have, 
Not  from  gieat  deeds,  but  good  alone; 
The  unknown  are  better  than  ill  known; 

Rumor  can  op(^  the  grave. 
Ae(piaint;uiee  I  would  have,  but  when't 

depends 
Not  on  the  number,  but  the  choice,  of 

friends. 


ABKAflAM   COWLEY. 


41 


Books  should,    not  business,    entertain 

the  light, 
And  sleep,  as  undisturbed  as  death,  the 

night. 
My  house  a  cottage  more 
Than  palace  ;  and  should  fitting  be 
For  all  my  use,  no  luxury. 

My  garden  painted  o'er 
With   Nature's  hand,    not   Art's;    and 

pleasures  yield, 
Horace  might  envy  in  his  Sabine  field. 

Thus   would  I  double  my   life's  fading 

space ; 
For  he  that  runs  it  well  twice  runs  his 
race. 
And  in  this  true  delight. 
These  unbought  sports,  this  hapjiy  state, 
I  would  not  fear,  nor  wisli,  my  fate; 

But  boldly  say  each  night. 
To-morrow  let  my  sun  his  beams  display, 
Or  in  clouds  hide  them;  I  have  lived  to- 
day. 


LIBERTY. 

Where  honor  or  where  conscience  does 

not  bind, 
No  other  law  shall  shackle  me  ; 
Slave  to  myself  I  will  not  be  : 
Nor  shall  my  future  actions  be  confined 
By  my  own  present  mind. 
Who  by  resolves  and  vows  engaged  does 

stand 
For  days  that  yet  belong  to  Fate, 
Does,    like   an    unthrift,    mortgage   his 

estate 
Before  it  falls  into  his  hand. 
The  bondman  of  the  cloister  so 
All  that  he  does  receive  does  always  owe ; 
And  still  as  time  co»nes  in,  it  goes  away. 
Not  to  enjoy,  but  debts  to  pay. 
Unhappy  slave  !  and  pupil  to  a  bell ! 
Which  his  hour's  work,  as  well  as  hours, 

does  tell ! 
Unhappy  to  the  last,  the  kind  releasing 

kneU. 


FROM  DRYDEN  TO  BURNS. 


From  Dryden  to  Burns. 


-00>*^0«- 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 

[1631-1701.] 

SONG  FOR  SAINT  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687- 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
Tins  universal  frame  began  : 
"When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 
Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 
Arise,  ye  more  tluin  dead  ! 

Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap. 
And  music's  power  obey. 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony. 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
From  harmony  to  harmony 

Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it 
ran, 

The  diapason  closing  full  in  man. 

What  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chord(d  shell 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could 
not  dwell 
Within  the  liollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetlj^  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  music  raise  and  quell? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms. 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries,'  "  Hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge,  't  is  too  late  to  retreat  !  " 


The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 
The  woes  of  liopeless  lovers. 
Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  war- 
bling lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation. 
Fury,  frantic  indignation. 
Depth  of  pains,  and  heiglit  of  passion. 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

But  0,  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach. 

The  sacred  organ's  praise? 
Notes  inspiring  holy'love. 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 


Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race. 
And  trees  upi-ooted  left  their  place. 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre  : 
But   bright   Cecilia   raised   the   wonder 
higher 


When  to   her 


vocal   breath  was 


given. 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared,  — 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven  ! 


GRAND   CHORUS. 


As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move. 
And  sung  the  gieat  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blest  above ; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
Tliis  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
Tlie  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  music  shall  untune  the  sky. 


46 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


UNDER  MILTON'S  PICTURE. 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in   loftiness   of  thought   sur- 

]iassed ; 
The  next  in  majesty  ;  in  bnth  the  last. 
The  force  of  Natnre  could  no  further  go  ; 
To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  former 

two. 


CHARACTER  OF  A  GOOD  PARSON. 

A   PAHISH   priest    was    of    the   pilgrim 

train  ; 
An  awful,  reverend,  and  religious  man. 
His  eyes  ditiused  a  venerable  grace, 
And  charity  itself  was  in  his  face. 
Eich  was  his  soul,  though  his  attire  was 

poor 
(As  God  hath  clothed  his  own  ambassa- 
dor) ; 
For  such,  on  earth,  his  blessed  Redeemer 

bore. 
Of  sixty  years  he  seemed ;  and  well  might 

la.st 
To  sixty  more,  but  that  he  lived  too  fast. 
Refined  lumself  to  soul,  to  curb  the  sense. 
And  made  almost  a  sin  of  ab.-;tinence. 
Yet  had  his  aspect  nothing  of  severe, 
But  suchafaci-  as  promised  him  sincere. 
Nothing  reserved  or  sullen  was  to  see ; 
But  sweet  regards,  antl  pleasing  sanctity. 
Mild  was  his  accent,  and  his  action  free. 
AVith  eloquence  innate  his   tongue  was 

armed ; 
Though  harsh  the  precept,  yet  the  peo- 
ple charmed. 
For,  letting  d(jwn  the  golden  chain  from 

high, 
He  drew  his  audience  ujiward  to  the  sky ; 
And  oft  with  holy  hymns  he   charmed 

their  ears 
(A   music    more    melodious    than    the 

spheres); 
For  David  left  him,  when  he  went  to  rest. 
His  lyre  ;  and   after   him    he  sung  the 

best. 
He  bore  his  gi-eat  commission  in  his  look  ; 
But  sweetly  tcmiiered  awe,  and  softened 

all  he  s])nke. 
He  preached  the  joys  of  heaven  and  pains 

of  liell, 
And  warned  the  sinner  with  becoming 

zeal  ; 
But  on  eternal  mercy  loved  to  dwell. 


He  taught  the  gospel  rather   than    the 

law; 
And  forced  himself  to  drive.;  but  loved 

to  draw. 
F.or  feaj'but  freezes  minds  ;  but  love,  like 

heat. 
Exhales  the  sonl  sublime,  to   seek  her 

native  seat. 
To  threatsthe  stubborn  sinneroft  is  hard, 
Wrapped    in    his    crimes,    against   the 

storm  prepared ; 
But  when  the  milder  beams  of  mercy 

He  melts,  and  throws  his  cumbrous  cloak 
away. 

Lightning  and  thunder  (heaven's  artil- 
lery) 

As  harbingers  before  the  Almighty  fly : 

Tho.se  but  proclaim  his  style,  and  di.sap- 
])ear ; 

The  stiller  sounds  succeed,  and  God  is 
there. 

REASON. 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon  and 

stars 
To  lonely,  weary,  wandering  travellers, 
Is  reason  to  the  soul :  and  as  on  high, 
Tiiose  rolling  fires  discover  but  the  sky, 
Not  light  us  here  ;  so  reason's  glim  mer- 
ging ray 
"Was  lent,  not  to  assur(>  our  doubtful  way. 
But  guide  us  upward  trf  a  better  day. 
And  as  tho.se  nightly  tapers  di-sajipear 
When   day's   bright   lord    ascends    our 

hemisphere  ; 
So  pale  grows  reason  at  religion's  sight,  — 
So  dies,  and  so  dissolves  in  supernatural 
light. 


THOMAS  KEN. 

[I637-I7II.] 

MORNING  HTiMN. 

Aavake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  course  of  duty  run  ; 
Shake  off  dull  .sloth,  and  joyful  rise 
To  pay  thy  morning  sacrifice. 

Wake,  and  lift  up  thyself,  my  heart, 
And  with  the  angels  bear  thy  part, 


JOSEPH   ADDISON. 


47 


Wlio  all  night  long  unwearied  sing 
High  praises  to  the  eternal  King. 

All  praise  to  Thee,  who  safe  hast  kept, 
And  hast  refreshed  me  whilst  1  slept ; 
Grant,   Lord,   when  1  from  death    shall 

wake, 
T  may  of  endless  light  partake. 

Lord,  I  my  vows  to  thee  renew ; 
Disperse  my  sins  as  morning  dew  ; 
Guard  my  first  springs  of  thought  and 

will. 
And  with  thyself  my  spirit  fill. 

Direct,  control,  suggest,  this  day, 
All  I  design,  or  do,  or  say  ; 
That  all  my  powers,  with  all  their  might,- 
Li  thy  sole  glory  may  unite. 

Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  ; 
Praise  him,  all  creatures  here  below ; 
Praise  him  above,  ye  heavenly  host; 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 


guide. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

[1672-1719.] 

HYMN. 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  0  Lord  ! 

How  sui'e  is  their  defence  ! 
Eternal  Wisdom  is  theii  ^ 

Their  helji  Omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms  and  lands  remote, 

Supj)orted  by  thy  care. 
Through  burning  climes  I  passed  unhurt, 

And  breathed  in  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweetened  every  toil. 

Made  every  region  please ; 
The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warmed, 

And  smoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

Think,  0  my  soul,  devoutly  think. 

How,  with  aflVighted  eyes, 
Tliou  saw'st  the  wide  extended  deep 

In  all  its  horrors  rise. 

Confusion  dwelt  in  every  face. 

And  fear  in  every  heart ; 
When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  on  gulfs, 

O'ercame  the  pilot's  art. 


Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  0  Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free, 
Whilst  in  the  confidence  of  prayer, 

My  faith  took  hold  on  thee. 

For,  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung. 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired 

Obedient  to  thy  will ; 
The  sea,  that  roared  at  thy  command, 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death, 

Thy  goodness  1  '11  adore. 
And  praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past, 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

My  life,  if  thou  preserv'st  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be  ; 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  PSALM  XXHI. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare. 
And  feed  me  with  a  sheplierd's  care  ; 
His  j^resence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye  ;~ 
My  noonday  walks  he  shall  attend. 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint. 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant, 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  rneads 
My  weary,  wandering  steps  he  leads, 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow. 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread. 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill ; 
For  thou,  0  Lord,  art  with  me  still  : 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 
And  guideme  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray. 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  wants  beguile. 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile, 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crowned, 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 


48 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


ALEXA^TER  POPE. 

[1688-1744.] 

THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  elinie  adored,. 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood. 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good. 

And  that  myself  am  blind ; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate. 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done. 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do. 
This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  away  ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives  : 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contiacted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound. 

Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw. 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  thv  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  rigiit  to  stay  ; 
If  I  am  wrong.  O,  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way  ! 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride. 

Or  imj)ious  discontent, 
At  auglit  thy  wisdom  has  denied. 

Or  auglit  thy  goodness  lent. 

Tench  me  to  feel  another's  woe. 

To  liide  the  fault  I  see ; 
Tb:it  mercy  I  to  others  show. 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  thonch  1  ani,  not  wholly  so. 
Since  quickened  by  thy  breath ; 


0,  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot; 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done  ! 

To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space,  — 
Who.se  altar,  earth,  sea,  .skies,  — 

One  chorus  let  all  beings  raise  ! 
All  Nature's  incense  rise  ! 


HAPPINESS. 

0  HAPPiNES.s  !  our  being's  end  and  aim  ! 

Good,  i>leasure,  ease,  content !  whate'er 
thy  name  ; 

That  something  still,  which  promjits  the 
eternal  sigh ; 

For  which  we  bear  to  live  or  dare  to 
die  ; 

Which  still  so  near  us,  yet  beyond  us 
lies, 

O'erlooked,  seen  double  by  the  fool,  and 
wise. 

Plant  of  celestial  seed !  if  dropped  be- 
low. 

Say,  in  what  mortal  soil  thou  dcigii'st  to 
grow  ? 

Fair  opening  to  .some  court's  ])ropitious 
shrine, 

Or  deep  with  diamonds  in  the  flaming 
mine  ? 

Twined  •  v  ith  the  wreaths  Parnassian 
laurels  yield. 

Or  reaped  in  iron  harvests  of  the  field  ? 

Wheie  grows  ?— Mhere  grows  it  not? 
If  vain  our  toil. 

We  ought  to  blame  the  culture,  not  the 
soil : 

Fixed  to  no  spot  is  happiness  sincere, 

'Tis  nowhere  to  be  found,  or  every  where. 
Ask  of  the  learned  the  way,  the  learned 
are  blind ; 

This  bids  to  .serve,  and  that  to  shun  man- 
kind : 

Some  place  the  bliss  in  action,  some  in 
ease ; 

Those  call  it  pleasure,  and  contentment 
these  : 

Some,  sunk  to  beasts,  find  pleasure  end 
in  pain  ; 

Some,  swelled  to  gods,  confess  e'en  vir- 
tue vain : 

Or  indolent,  to  each  extreme  they  fall,  — 


ALLAN   RAMSAY. 


49 


To  trust  in  everything,  or  doubt  of  all. 

Who  thus  define  it,  say  they  more  or  less 

Tlian  tliis,  that  ha]ipiness  is  Iiappiness  ? 

Take  nature's  patli,  and  mad  opinion's 
leave ; 

All  states  can  reach  it,  and  all  heads  con- 
ceive ; 

Obvious  her  goods,  in  no  extremes  thev 
dwell ; 

There  needs  but  thinking  right  and 
meaning  well ; 

And  mourn  our  various  portions  as  we 
J)!  ease. 

Equal  is  common  sense  and  common  ease. 

Remember,  man,  "The  Universal  Cause 

Acts  not  by  partial,  Viut  by  general  laws" ; 

And  makes  what  happiness  we  justly 
call 

Subsist  not  in  the  good  of  one,  but  all. 

There  's  not  a  blessing  individuals  jind. 

But  st)me  way  leans  and  hearkens  to  the 
kind ; 

No  bandit  fierce,  no  tyrant  mad  with 
pride, 

No  caverned  hermit  rests  self-satisfied  : 

Wlio  most  to  shun  or  hate  mankind  }ire- 
tend. 

Seek  an  admirer,  or  wouM  fix  a  friend  : 

Abstract  what  others  feel,  wliat  others 
think, 

All  y)leasures  sicken,  and  all  glories  sink  : 

Each  has  his  share  ;  and  who  would 
more  obtain 

Shall  find  the  ])leasure  pays  not  half  the 
pain. 

Order  is  Heaven's  first  law  ;  and,  this  con- 
fessed, 

Some  are,  and  must  be,  greater  than  the 
rest, 

More  rich,  more  wise  :  but  who  infers 
from  hence 

That  such  are  happier  shocks  all  common- 
sense. 

Heaven  to  mankind  impartial  we  confess, 

If  all  are  equal  in  their  hajipiness  : 

But  mutual  wants  this  happiness  in- 
crease ; 

All  nature's  difference  keeps  all  nature's 
yjeace. 

Condition,  circumstance,  is  not  the  thing; 

Bliss  is  the  same  in  subject  or  in  king. 

In  who  obtain  defence  or  who  defend. 

In  him  who  is  or  him  who  finds  a  friend  ; 

Heaven  breathes  through  every  member 
of  the  whol(! 

One  common  blessing,  as  one  common 
soul. 


But  fortune's  gifts  if  each  alike  possessed. 

And  all  were  e(pial,   must  not  all  con- 
test ? 

If  then  to  all  men  happiness  was  meant, 

God   in   externals    could  not  jjlace  con- 
tent. 
Fortune  her  gifts  may  variously  dis- 
j.ose. 

And  these   be   happy  called,    unhappy 
tiiose  ; 

But  Heaven's  just  balance  equal  will  ap- 
pear, 

"While   those   are   placed   in  hope,   and 
these  in  fear  ; 

Not  present  good  or  ill,  the  joy  or  curse. 

But  future  views  of  better  or  of  worse. 

O   sons   of  earth,    attempt   ye    still   to 
rise. 

By  mountains  piled  on  mountains,  to  the 
skies  ? 

Heaven  still  with  laughter  the  vain  toil 
surveys, 

And  buries  madmen  in  the  heaps  they 
raise. 
Know,  all  the  good  that  individuals 
find. 

Or  God  and  nature  meant  to  mere  man- 
kind. 

Reason's  wliole  pleasure,  ajl  the  joys  of 
sense, 

Lie  in  tliree  words,  health,  peace,  and 
competence. 


ALLAN  RAMSAY. 

[1685-1758.] 

SONG. 

Fakewell  to  Lochaber,  farewell  to  my 

Jean, 
Where  heartsome  with  thee  I  have  mony 

a  day  been : 
To  Lochaber  no  more,  to  Lochaber  no 

more. 
We  '11    maybe   return    to    Lochaber   no 

more. 
These  tears  that  I  shed  they  are  a'  for 

my  dear. 
And  not  for  the  dangers  attending  on 

weir ; 
Though  borne  on   rough   seas  to   a  far 

bloody  shore. 
Maybe  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  mor» ! 


50 


SOXGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Tliougli  hunicanes  rise,  and  rise  every 

wind, 
No  teini)est  can  eciual  the   storm  in  my 

mind  ; 
Thougli  loudest  of  thunders  on  louder 

waves  roar, 
That 's  iiaetliing  like  leaving  my  love  on 

tile  shore. 
To  leave  thee  behind  me  my  heart  is  sair 

pained, 
But  by  ease  that 's  inglorious  no  fame 

ean  be  gained : 
And  beauty  and  love's  the  reward  of  the 

brave ; 
And  I  maun  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  mj-  Jeany,  maun  plead  my 

exiHise ; 
Since  honor  commands  me,  how  can  I 

refuse  ? 
AVithout  it   I  ne'er  ean  have  merit  for 

thee. 
And  losing  thy  favor  I  'd  better  not  be. 
I  gae  then,  my  lass,   to  win  honor  and 

fame, 
And  if  I  should  chance  to  come  gloi'ious 

liame, 
I  'II  bring  a  heart  to  thee  with  love  run- 
ning o'er. 
And  then  1 11  leave  thee  and  Lochaber 

no  more. 


JOTIX  GAY. 
[1688-1732.] 

THE  PAES'TER  WHO  PLEASED  NOBODY 
AND  EVERYBODY. 

Xest  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue, 
Keep  probability  in  view. 
The  travi'Ili-r,  leajiing  o'er  those  bounds, 
The  credit  of  his  book  confounds. 
"Who  with  liis  tongue  hath  annies  routed 
Makes  even  his  real  courage  doubted  : 
l>ut  tlnttery  never  seems  absurd  ; 
Thr  tlatt<'red  always  lakos  your  word: 
Impossiliilitics  seeTii  just ; 
Tlicy  take  the  strongest  ]ii'aise  on  trust, 
liypei bides,  though  ne'er  so  great, 
"Will  still  come  sliort  of  .self-conceit. 

So  very  like  a. painter  drew. 
That  every  eye  tlie  pictun-  knew; 
He  hit  complexion,  feature,  air, 


!  So  just,  the  life  itself  was  there. 
;  No  Hatteiy  with  his  colors  laid. 
To  bloom  restored  the  faded  maid ; 
He  gave  each  muscle  all  its  strength. 
The  nioutli,  the  chin,  the  nose's  length. 
His  honest  pencil  touched  with  truth. 
And  marked  the  date  of  age  and  youth. 
He  lost  his  friends,  his  jjractice  failed; 
Truth  should  not  always  be  revealed; 
In  du.sty  piles  his  pictures  lay, 
I  For  no  one  sent  the  .second  pay. 
Two  bustos,  fraught  with  every  grace, 
A  Venus'  and  Apollo's  face. 
He  placed  in  view  ;  resolved  to  please, 
Whoever  sat,  he  drew  from  these. 
From  these  corrected  ever}'  feature. 
And  spirited  each  awkward  creature. 
All   things  Avere    set ;    the   hour  was 
come. 
His  pallet  ready  o'er  his  thumb. 
My  lord  appeared ;  and  seated  riglrt 
In  proper  attitude  and  light, 
The   painter    looked,    he   sketched   the 

]>iece, 
Tlien  dij>i)eil  his  pencil,  talked  of  Greece, 
Of  Titian's  tints,  of  Guido's  air ; 
"Those  eyes,  my  lord,  the  spirit  there 
Might  well  a  Raphael's  hand  require. 
To  give  them  all  their  native  fire  ; 
The   features    fraught   Mith    sense    and 

wit, 
You  "11  grant  are  very  hard  to  hit ; 
But  yet  with  patience  yon  shall  view 
As  much  as  paint  and  art  can  do. 
Observe  the  work."     ily  lord  rejilied  : 
"  Till    now  I   thought  my  mouth   was 

wide  ; 
Besides,  my  nose  is  somewhat  long  ; 
Dear  sir,  for  me,  't  is  I'ar  too  young." 
"Oh  !  pardon  me,"  the  artist  cried, 
"In  this  the  painters  must  det-ide. 
The  piece  even  common  eyes  must  strike, 
I  warrant  it  extrenudy  like." 

Jly  lord  examined  it  anew ; 
No  looking-glass  seemed  half  so  true. 
A  lady  came ;  with  borrowed  grace 
He  from  his  Venus  formed  her  face. 
Her  lover  ]iraised  the  painter's  art; 
So  like  the  picture  in  his  heart ! 
To  every  age  .some  charm  he  lent ; 
Even  beauties  were  almost  content. 
Through  all  the  town  his  art  they  praised; 
His  custom  grew,  his  price  was  raised. 
Had  lie  the  real  likeness  .shown. 
Would  any  man  tlie  ]ticture  own  ? 
P)Ut  when  tlius  ]iiip])i]y  he  wrought, 
Each  found  the  likeness  in  his  thourjlit. 


JOHN   BYROM. — JAMES   THOMSON, 


51 


JOHN  BYROM. 

[1691-1763.] 

CARELESS  CONTENT. 

I  AM  content,  I  do  not  cave, 

W'dg  as  it  will  the  world  for  me ; 

"When  fuss  and  fret  was  all  luy  fare, 
It  got  no  ground  as  I  could  see  : 

So  wlien  away  my  caring  went, 

1  counted  cost,  and  was  content. 

AVith  more  of  thanks  and  less  of  thought, 
I  strive  to  make  my  matters  meet ; 

To  seek  what  ancient  sages  sought. 
Physic  and  food  in  sour  and  sweet : 

To  take  what  passes  in  good  part, 

And  keep  the  hiccups  from  the  heart. 

With  good  and  gentle-humored  hearts, 
I  choose  to  chat  where'er  1  come, 

Whate'er  the  subject  be  that  starts ; 
But  if  I  get  among  the  glum, 

I  hold  my  tongue  to  tell  the  truth. 

And  keep  my  breath  to  cool  my  broth. 

For  chance  or  change  of  peace  or  pain. 
For  Fortune's  favor  or  her  frown, 

For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain, 
I  never  dodge  nor  up  nor  down  ; 

But  swing  what  way  the  ship  shall  sAvim, 

Or  tack  about  with  e<jual  trim. 

I  suit  not  where  I  shall  not  speed. 
Nor  trace  the  turn  of  every  tide  ; 

If  simple  sense  will  not  succeed, 
I  make  no  bustling,  but  abide; 

For  shining  wealth  or  scaring  woe, 

I  force  no  friend,  I  fear  no  foe. 

Of  ups  and  downs,  of  ins  and  outs, 
Of  they  're  i'  the  wrong,  and   we  're 
i'  the  right, 

I  shun  the  rancors  and  the  routs ; 
And  wishing  well  to  every  wight, 

Whatever  tui'n  the  matter  takes, 

I  deem  it  all  but  ducks  and  drakes. 

With  whom  I  feast  I  do  not  fawn, 
Nor  if  the  folks  should  flout  me,  faint ; 

If  wonted  welcome  be  withdrawn, 
I  cook  no  kind  of  a  comjilaint : 

With  none  disposed  to  disagree, 

But  like  them  best  who  best  like  me. 

Not  that  I  rate  myself  the  rule 

How  all  my  betters  should  behave ; 


But  fame  shall  find  me  no  man's  fool, 

Nor  to  a  set  of  men  a  slave  : 
I  love  a  friendship  free  and  frank, 
And  hate  to  hang  upon  a  hank. 

Fond  of  a  true  and  trusty  tie, 
1  never  loose  where'er  I  link ; 

Though  if  a  business  budges  by, 
I  talk  thereon  just  as  I  think  ; 

My  word,  my  work,  my  heart,  my  hand. 

Still  on  a  side  together  stand. 

If  names  or  notions  make  a  noise, 
Whatever  hap  the  question  hath. 

The  point  impartially  1  poise, 

And  read  or  write,  but  without  wrath; 

For  should  I  burn,  or  break  my  brains, 

Pray,  who  will  pay  me  for  my  pains  ? 

I  love  my  neighbor  as  myself, 

Myself  like  him  too,  by  his  leave  ; 

Nor  to  his  pleasure,  power,  or  pelf 
Came  I  to  crouch,  as  I  conceive  : 

Dame  Nature  doubtless  has  designed 

A  man  the  monarch  of  his  mind. 

Now  taste  and  try  this  temper,  sirs ; 

Mood  it  and  brood  it  in  your  breast ; 
Or  if  ye  ween,  for  worldly  stirs, 

That  man  does  right  to  mar  his  rest, 
Let  me  be  deft,  and  debonair, 
1  am  content,  I  do  not  care. 


JAMES   THOMSOK 

[1700- 1748.] 

FROM  THE  "  CASTLE  OP  INDOLENCE." 

I\  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side. 
With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompassed 

round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  ainde, 
Than  whom  a  friend  more  fell  is  no- 
where found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  grouml : 
And  there  a  season  atween  June  gnd 

May, 
Half  pranked  with  spring,  witli  sum- 
mer half  imbrowncnl, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth 
to  say. 
No  living  wight  could  work,  nor  cared 
even  for  play. 


52 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Was  naught  around  but  images  of  rest : 

Sleep-sootliing groves,  and  quiet  lawns 
between ; 

And  tiowery  beds  that  slumberous  iu- 
tluence  kest, 

Fiom  poiniies  breathed;  and  beds  of 
l)lea;sant  green, 

Where  never   yet  was  creeping  crea- 
ture seen. 

Meantime      unnumbered      glittering 
streandets  j)layed, 

And   hurled    everywhere  their  waters 
sheen  ; 

That,   as  they  bickered  through   the 
sunny  glade. 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lull- 
ing murnmr  made. 

Joined   to  the  jirattle  of  the  purling 

rills. 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the 

vale. 
And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  dis- 
tant hills. 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the 

dale ; 
And   now   and   then  sweet   Philomel 

would  wail. 
Or  stoek-doves  plain  amid  the  forest 

deep, 
That   drowsy  rustled   to   the  sighing 

gale ; 
And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did 

keep; 
Yet  all  these  sounds  yblent  incUued  all 

to  sleep. 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood. 
Where  naught  but  shadowy  forms  was 

seen  to  move, 
As  Idlesse  fancied  in  her  dreamymood  : 
And    u))   the   hills,  on  either  side,  a 

wood 
Of  blackening   pines,  aye  waving  to 

and  fro, 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the 

blood  ; 
And  where  this  vallev  winded  out  bi'- 

low, 
Tlie    iiniiiMUring    main   was   heard,   and 

M-incly  heard,  to  flow. 

A  i>leasingland  of  drowsy-head  it  was. 


And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that 
pass. 

Forever  Hushing  round  a  summer  sky  : 

There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witcli- 
ingly 

Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the 
breast, 

And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hov- 
ered nigh ; 

But  whate'er  smacked  of  noj'ance  or 
unrest 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  fi'om  this  deli- 
cious nest. 


A  HYMN. 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Fa- 
ther, these 

Are  but  the  varied  God.  The  rolling 
year 

Is  full  of  thee.  Forth  in  the  jileasing 
spiing 

Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and 
love. 

Wide  Hush  the  fields;  the  softening  air 
is  balm  ; 

Echo  the  mountains  round ;  the  forest 
smiles; 

And  every  sense,  and  every  heart,  is  joy. 

Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  summer 
months. 

With  light  and  heat  refulgent.  Then 
thy  sun 

Shoots  full  jieifection  through  the  swell- 
ing year ; 

And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder 
speaks, 

And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling 
eve, 

By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whis- 
pering gales. 

Tliy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  nncon- 
fined. 

And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that 
lives. 

In  winter  awful  thou  !  with  clouds  and 
storms 

Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tem- 
pest rolled. 

Majestic  darkness!  On  the  whirlwind's 
wing, 

Riding  suldime,  thou  bid'st  tlie  woiM 
(idore, 


Of  dreanjs  that  wave  bei'ore  the  half-  i  And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern 
shut  eye :  1  blast. 


JAMES   THOMSON. 


53 


Mysterious   round !  what  skill,   what 
force  divine, 

Deep  felt,  in  these  appear !  a  simple  train, 

Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind 
art. 

Such  beauty  aijd  beneficence  combined ; 

Shade,   unperceived,    so   softening    into 
slxade ; 

And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  M'hole  ; 

That,  as  they  still  succeed,  thev^  ravish 
still. 

But  wandering  oft,  with  brute   uncon- 
scious gaze, 

Man  marks   not   thee,    marks   not   the 
mighty  hand. 

That,    ever     busy,    wheels    the    silent 
spheres ; 

"Works  in  the  secret  deep ;  shoots,  steam- 
ing, thence 

The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the 
spring ; 

Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming 
day; 

Feeds  every  creature ;  hurls  the  tempests 
forth ; 

And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change 
revolves, 

With  transport  touches  all  the  springs 
of  life. 
Natnre,  attend!  join  every  living  soul. 

Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky. 

In  adoration  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise. 

One   general   song !     To  him,   ye  vocal 
gales, 

Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  fresh- 
ness breathes : 

0.  talk  of  him  in  solitary  glooms ; 

Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  wav- 
ing pine 

Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious 
awe! 

And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 

Who  shake   the   astonished   world,   lift 
high  to  heaven 

The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom 
you  rage. 

His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trem- 
bling rills  ; 

And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 

Ye  headlong   torrents,   rapid   and    pro- 
found ; 

Ye  softer  floods,   that  lead   the   humid 
maze 

Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 

A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 

Sound    his    stupendous    praise,    whose 
greater  voice 


Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings 

fall. 
Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits, 

and  tlowt-rs. 
In  mingled  clouds  to  him,  whose   suir 

exalts, 
Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose 

pencil  paints. 
Ye    forests   bend,    ye    harvests   wave,  to 

him  ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's 

heart. 
As   home  he   goes   beneath   the  joyous 

moon. 
Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth 

asleep 
Unconscious    lies,    effuse    your   mildest 

beams. 
Ye    constellations,    while    your    angels 

strike. 
Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 
Great  source   of  day !  best   image  here 

below         , 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 
From  world   to   world,  the  vital  ocean 

round. 
On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  his 

praise. 
The  thunder  rolls :  be  hushed  the  pros- 
trate world  ; 
While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn 

hymn. 
Bleat   out   afresh,    ye  hills;    j'e   mossy 

rocks, 
Retain  the  sound ;  the  broad  res]iousive 

low. 
Ye  valleys,  raise ;   for  the  great  Shep- 
herd reigns, 
And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will 

come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake :   a  boundless 

song 
Burst   from  the  groves;  and  when  the 

restless  day. 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleej), 
Sweetest    of    birds !    sweet    Philomela, 

charm 
The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night 

his  praise. 
Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation 

smiles. 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue 

of  all. 
Crown   the  great   hymn!  in   swarming 

cities  vast, 
Assembled    men    to    the     deep     organ 

join 


54 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking 

clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling 

bass ; 
Ami,  as  each  mingling  flame   increases 

eacli, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 
Ur  it"  you  rather  clioos(!  the  rural  sliade, 
And  find  a  fiine  in  every  sacred  grove. 
There  let  tlie  shepherd's  flute,  the  vir- 
gin's lay. 
The  pionipting  scrapli,  and   the   poet's 

lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  seasons,  as  they 

roll. 
For    me,    when    I    forget    the    darling 

theme, 
"Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer 

ray 
Russets    the    plain,    inspiring    autumn 

gleams. 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east. 
Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no 

more. 
And,  dead  to  jov,  forget  my  heart  to 

beat ! 
Should  fate  coinmand  mc  to  the  far- 
thest verge 
Of  the  green  eartli,  to  distant  barbarous 

climes, 
Kivers  unknown  to  song, — where  first 

the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  liis  .setting 

beam 
Flames    on    tlie    Atlantic    isles,  —  't  is 

nauglit  to  me  : 
Since  God  is  ever  ]>resent,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste,  as  in  tlie  city  full ; 
And  wliere  he  vital  breathes,  theie  must 

be  joy. 
AVhen  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall 

come. 
And    wing   ni\'  mystic  flight  to  future 

Worlds, 
I    clieeilul  will   obey;  tliere,   with  new 

]  lowers, 
Will  rising  wonders  sing:  I  cannot  go 
"Where  IJiiiversid  hove  not  smiles  ;ironnd, 
Sustaining   all   yon  orbs,  anil  all  their 

suns ; 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
.\nil    better    thence    again,    and    better 

still. 
In  infinite  progi-ession.     Hiit  I  lose 
Myself  in  him,  in  light  inetliible ! 
Gome  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  his 

praise. 


JOnX   DYER. 

[1700-1758.] 

GRONGAR  HILL. 

Sii.F.XT  nymph,  with  curious  eye! 
Who,  the  purple  eve,  dost  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van. 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man. 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 
"While  the  yellow  linnet  sings. 
Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Gharms  the  forest  with  her  tale, — 
Gome,  with  all  thy  various  hues. 
Gome  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse. 
Now,  while  Phiebus,  riding  high, 
Gives  lustre  to  tlie  land  and  sky, 
Grongar  Hill  invites  niy  song, — 
Draw  the  landseajie  bright  and  strong; 
Grongar,  in  who.se  mossy  cells 
Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells ; 
Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 
For  the  modest  JIuscs  made, 
So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 
At  the  fountain  of  a  rill. 
Sat  U[ion  a  flowery  bed, 
With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 
AVhile    strayed    my    eyes    o'er    Towy's 

flood. 
Over  mead  and  over  wood, 
From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  liill. 
Till  Gontem})lation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  checkered  sides  1  wind, 
And   leave   his   brooks   and   meads  be- 
hind. 
And  groves  and  grottos  where  I  la\', 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day. 
Wide  and  wider  sjircads  tlu-  vale. 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal. 
The  mountains  rounil,  unhappy  fate  ! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height, 
Witlulraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise. 
Still  the  jirospect  wider  spreads. 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads; 
Still  it  widens,  wiilens  still, 
And  sinks  tlie  newly  risen  hill. 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow; 
What  a  landscape  lies  below  ! 
No  clouds,  no  va|iors  intervene; 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face;  of  Nature  .show. 
In  all  the  lines  of  lu-aven's  bow  ! 
.And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Sjireads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  ou  the  cliifs  arise, 


JOHN    DYER. 


bo 


Proudly  towering  in  the  skies ; 
Kushiiig  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  tVoni  hence  ascending  fires  ; 
Half  his  beams  Ajiollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads, 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  liocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue. 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew. 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 
The     sturdy     oak     with     broad-spread 

boughs ; 
And  lieyoud  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn. 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye. 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  Hood : 
His    sides    are    clothed    with    waving 

wood. 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
Tiiat  cast  an  awful  look  below  ; 
"Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps  ; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
In  mutual  dependence  find. 
'T  is  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode  ; 
'T  is  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds; 
And  there  the  poisonous  adder  bi-eeds. 
Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds; 
AVhile,  ever  and  anon,  there  fall 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  mouldered  wall. 
Yet  Time  has  seen,  —  that  lifts  the  low 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow,  — 
Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state. 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  ! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day. 
Is  all  the  ]iroud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run. 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and 

sun, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow,  — 
Wave  sueceeiiing  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep. 
Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep! 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought, 
To  instrncn  our  wandering  thought: 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay, 
To  disperse  our  (-ires  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new. 


When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view ! 

The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  How ; 

The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low ; 

3'he  wind}'  sunnnit,  wild  and  high, 

Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky ; 

The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower. 

The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower ; 

The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, — 

Each  gives  each  a  double  charm, 

As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side. 
Where  the  jirospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  giUls  the  tide  ; 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie ! 
What    streaks  .of    meadow    cross    the 

eye !  _ 
A  step  methinks  may  pass  the  stream, 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem ; 
So  we  mistake  the  Future's  face. 
Eyed  through  Hope's  deluding  glass; 
As  yon  summits,  soft  and  fair. 
Clad  in  colors  of  the  air. 
Which  to  those  who  journey  near. 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  ajipear; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way, 
The  present 's  still  a  cloudy  da}^. 

0,  may  I  with  mystdf  agree. 
And  never  covet  what  I  see ; 
Content  me  with  an  humble  shade. 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid ; 
•For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 
We  banish  (juiet  from  the  soul : 
'T  is  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air. 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie; 
While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings, 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep; 
While  the  slie]iherd  charms  his  sheep; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fi}'. 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be    full,    ye    courts ;    be    great    who 
will ; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill : 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  niai-ble  floor. 
In  vain  you  search  ;  she  is  not  there  ! 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care  ! 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads. 
On  the  meads  and  mountain-heads. 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied. 
Ever  by  each  other's  side  ; 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  riH, 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still 
Within  the  groves  of  Grougar  Hill. 


56 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


AVILLIAM   HAMILTON. 

[1704- 1754.] 

THE  BRAES  OF  YARROW. 

Bl'SK  ye,   busk   ye,    my   bonny   bonny 

biiile. 

Husk  ye,  busk  ye,  mjMvinsonie  marrow  I 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  niy  hoiiny  bcmny  biicb-, 

And  tliiuk  nae  niair  ou  the  Braes  of 

Yarrow. 

' '  Wliere  gat  ye  that  bonny  bonny  bride  ? 

When-  f^at  ye  that  winsome  marrow?" 
1  gat  liei'  where  I  dareua  weil  be  seen, 

Bu'lngthe  birksonthe  Braesof  Yarrow. 

AVeep  not,  weep  not,  my  bonny  bonny 
bride. 
Weep    not,    weep    not,    my   winsome 
marrow ! 
Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leave 

Pu'ingthe  birkson  the  Braesof  Yarrow. 

"Why  does  she  weep,  thy  bonny  bonny 
■  bride? 
"Why    does    she   weeji,    thy   winsome 
marrow  ? 
And  why  dare  ye  nae  mair  weil  be  seen, 
Pu'in<<  tlie  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yar- 
row?" 

Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun  she, 
maun  she  weep, 
Lang  maun  she  weeji  with  dule  and  sor- 
row. 
And  lang  maun  I  nae  mair  weil  be  .seen, 
Pu'ingthe  birkson  tlie  Ihaes  of  Yarrow. 

For  she  has  tint  her  lover  lover  dear. 
Her  lover  deal',  the  eaus(^  of  soriow, 

And  I  hae  slain  the  corneliest  swain 
That  e'er  pn'ml  birks  on  the  Braes  of 
Yain'ow. 

AVliv  runs  tliy  stream,  0  Yarrow,  Yarrow, 
ri'd  {  ' 
\Vliy  on  tliy  braes  heaid  the  voiee  of 
sorrow  ? 
And  wliy  yon  nielan<'liolious  weeds 
Hung  on  tlie  bonny  birks  of  Yarrow? 

AVhat  's  yonder  Hoats  on  the  rueful  rueful 
tlu.le? 
What's    yfijider   lloat.s?     U   dule   and 
sorrow  I 


'T  is  he,  th(i  eomelv  swain  I  slew 
Upon  the  dulel'ul  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Wash,  0,  wash  his  wounds,  his  wounds  in 

tears, 

His  wounds  in  tears  with  dule  and 

sorrow, 

And  wrap  his  lind)s  in  mourning  weeds, 

And  lay  him  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Then  build,  then  build,  ye  sisters  sisters 
sad. 

Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  with  sorrow, 
And  weep  around  irt  waeful  wise, 

H  is  helpless  fate  ou  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

Curse  3'e,  curse  ye  his  useless  nselessslntdd. 
My  arm  that  wrouglit  the  deed  of  son  ow, 

The  fatal  spear  that  pierced  his  breast. 
His   comely  breast,  on  the  Braes   of 
Yarrow. 

Did  T  not  warn  thee  not  to  lo'e. 

And  warn  from  tight,  but  to  my  sorrow ; 

O'er  rashly  bauld  a  strongei'  arm 

Thou  met'st,  and  fell  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 

Sweet  smells  the  birk,  green  grows,  green 
grows  the  glass. 

Yellow  on  Yarrow  bank  the  gowan, 
Fair  hangs  the  ajiple  fine  the  rock. 

Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowan. 

Flows  Yarrow  sweet  ?  as  sweet,  as  sweet 
flows  Tweed, 

As  green  its  grass,  its  gowan  as  yellow, 
As  sweet  smells  on  its  braes  the  birk. 

The  apple  frae  the  rock  as  mellow. 

Fair  was  thy  love,  fair  fairindeed  thy  love. 
In  flowery  bands  thou  him  didst  fi'tter; 

Tiiough  he  was  fairand  weil  beloved  again, 
Than  me  he  never  lo'ed  thee  better. 

Busk  ye,   then  busk,  my  bonny  bonny 
bride, 
l^usk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow  ! 
Bu.sk  ve,  and  lo'e  me  on  the  banks  of 
"Tweed, 
And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of 
Yarrow. 

"How  can  I  busk  a  bonny  bonny  bride, 
How  can  I  busk  a  winsome  marrow, 

How  lo'e  him  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
That  slew  my  love  on  the  Braes  of  Yar- 
row ? 


ISAAC   WATTS. 


57 


"0  Yarrow  fields!  may  never  never  rain 
Nor  (lew  thy  tender  blossoms  cover, 

For  there  was  basely  slain  my  love, 
My  love,  as  lie  had  not  been  a  lover. 

"  The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes  of 
green. 

His  purple  vest,  't  was  my  ain  sewing ; 
All!  wretched  me!    I  little  little  kenned 

He  was  in  these  to  meet  his  ruin. 

"The  boy  took  out  his  niilk-wliite  milk- 
wliite  steed, 

Unheedful  of  my  dule  and  sorrow, 
But  e'er  the  to-fall  of  the  night 

He  lay  a  corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

"Much  I  rejoiced  that  waeful  waeful  da}' ; 

I  sang,  my  voice  the  woods  returning, 
But  lang  ere  night  the  spear  was  ilowu 

That  slew  my  love,  and  left  me  mourn- 
ing. 

"What  can  my  barbarous  barbarous  fa- 
ther do. 
But  with  his  cruel  rage  pursue  me? 
My  lover's  blc^d  is  on  thy  spear, 

How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man,  then 
woo  me  ? 

"ilv  happy  sisters  may  be,  maybe  proud ; 

With  cruel  and  ungentle  scoffin. 
May  bid  me  seek  on  Yarrow  Braes 

My  lover  nailed  in  his  coffin. 

"My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid,  up- 
braid. 
And  strive  with  threatening  words  to 
move  me. 
My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear, 

How  canst  thou  ever  bid  me  love  thee  ? 

"Yes,  yes,  prepare  the  bed,  thebedof  love, 
With  bridal  sheets  my  body  cover, 

Unbar,  ye  bridal  maids,  the  door. 
Let  in  the  expected  husband  lover. 

"But  who  the  expected  husband  hus- 
band is? 
His   hands,  methinks,  are  bathed  in 
slaughter. 
Ah  me  I  what  ghastly  spectre  's  yon. 
Comes   in   his   pale  shroud,  bleeding 
after? 

' '  Pale  ashe  is,  here  lay  him,  lay  him  down, 
O,  lay  his  cold  head  on  my  pillow ; 


Take  aff,  take  alf  these  bridal  weeds. 
And  crown  my  careful  head  with  willow. 

"  Pale  though  thou  art,  yet  best,  yet  best 
beloved, 

0,  could  my  warmth  to  life  restore  thee ! 
Ye  'd  lie  all  night  between  my  breasts. 

No  youth  lay  ever  there  before  thee. 

"Pale pale,  indeed,  0  lovelylovely  youth, 

Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a  slaughter, 
And  lie  all  night  between  my  breasts, 
.     No  youth  shall  ever  lie  there  after." 

Return,  return,  0  mournful  mournful 
bride, 

Eeturn  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow  : 
Thy  lover  heeds  naught  of  thy  sighs. 

He  lies  a  corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 


ISAAC  WATTS. 

[1674- 1748.] 

THE  HEAVENLY  LAND. 

There  is  a  land  of  jmre  delight, 
Where  saints  immortal  reign ; 

Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 
And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 
And  never-withering  flowers ; 

Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

Sweet  fields  bej'ond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green  ; 

So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood. 
While  Jordan  rolled  between. 

But  timorous  mortals  start  and  shrink 

To  cross  this  narrow  sea, 
And  linger  shivering  on  the  brink. 

And  fear  to  launch  away. 

0,  could  we  make  our  doubts  remove, 
These  gloomy  doubts  that  rise. 

And  see  the  Canaan  that  we  love 
With  unbeclouded  eyes,  — 

Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 
And  view  the  landscape  o'er. 

Not  Jordan's   stream,  nor  death's  cold 
flood. 
Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. 


58 


SOXGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


rniLIP  DODDIUDGE. 

> 

[1702- 1751.] 

YE  GOLDEN   LAMPS  OF  HEAVEN, 
FAREWELL ! 

Ye  golden  liiinps  of  lii'avcn,  farewell, 

With  all  your  feeljle  light ! 
Farewell,  thou  ever-ehaiigiiig  moon, 

Pale  empress  of  the  night ! 

And  thou,  refulgent  orb  of  day, 

In  l)righter  tlanies  ariayed  ; 
My  soul,  that  springs  beyond  thy  sphere, 

No  more  demantls  thy-  aid. 

Ye  stars  are  but  the  shining  dust 

Of  nn*  divine  abode  ; 
The  pavement  of  those  heavenly  courts 

Wliere  1  shall  see  my  God. 

There  all  the  millions  of  his  saints 

Shall  in  one  song  unite  ; 
And  each  the  bliss  of  all  shall  view, 

With  iuhuite  delight. 


CHARLES  WESLEY. 

[1708-1788.] 

JESUS,   LOVER  OF  MY  SOUL. 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

AVhile  the  tempest  still  is  high: 
Hide  me,  0  my  Saviour,  hide, 

Tii!  tile  storm  of  life  be  past; 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide, 

0,  receive  my  soul  at  last ! 

Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  Indpless  soul  on  thee; 
Leave,  ah  I  leave  me  not  alone, 

Still  sujipoit  and  comfort  me: 
All  my  trust  on  tiu^e  is  stayed. 

All  my  li(dp  from  thee  1  bring; 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 

AVith  the  shadow  of  thy  wing. 

Thnu,  O  Christ,  art  all  1  want; 

More  tlian  all  in  thee  I  lind  : 
liaise  tlie  fallen,  clii'er  the  faint, 

Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  tlie  blind  ; 


Just  and  holy  is  thy  name, 
I  am  all  unrighteousness; 

False  and  full  of  sin  1  am, 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  with  thee  is  found, 

(iiaee  to  cover  all  my  sin ; 
Let  the  healing  streams  abound, 

Make  and  keep  me  puie  within  : 
Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art ; 

Freely  let  me  take  of  thee  ; 
Spring  thou  up  within  my  heart, 

Kise  to  all  eternity. 


AUGUSTUS  M.  TOrLADY. 

[1740- 1778.] 

LOVE  DIVINE,  ALL  LOVE  EXCELLING. 

Love  divine,  all  love  excelling, 

Joy  of  heaven  to  earth  come  down  ; 
Fix  in  us  thy  humble  dwelling. 

All  thy  faithful  mercies  crown ; 
Jesus,  thou  art  all  compassion ! 

Pure,  unliounded  love  thou  art;* 
V^it  us  with  thy  salvation. 

Enter  eveiy  trembling  heart. 

Breathe,  0,  breathe  thy  loving  Sjiirit 

Into  every  troubled  breast; 
Let  us  all  in  thee  inherit. 

Let  us  find, the  ])romised  rest; 
Take  away  the  h)ve  of  sinning, 

Alpha  and  Omega  be  ; 
End  of  faith,  as  its  beginning, 

Set  our  hearts  at  liberty. 

Come,  almighty  to  deliver. 

Let  us  all  thy  life  receive; 
Suddenly  return,  and  never. 

Never  more  thy  temples  leave  : 
Thee  we  would  be  always  blessing, 

Serve  thee  as  thy  hosts  above ; 
Pray  and  praise  thee  without  ceasing, 

Glory  in  thy  precious  love. 

Finish  then  thy  new  creation, 

Pure,  unspotted  may  we  be; 
Let  us  see  thy  great  salvation 

Perfectly  restored  by  thee  : 
Changed  from  gloi'y  into  glory. 

Till  in  heaven  we  take  our  ])laee ! 
Till  we  east  our  crowns  before  thee. 

Lost  in  woudei-,  love,  and  praise. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. — WILLIAM   SHENSTONE. 


59 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

[1709-17S4.] 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.   LEVETT. 

CoxDEMXED  to  hope's  delusive  inine, 
As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 

By  sadden  blasts,  or  slow  decline, 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend, 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere. 
Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection's  eye, 
Obscurely  wise  and  coarsely  kind; 

Xor,  lettered  arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 


When  fainting  nature  called  for  aid. 
And    hovering    death    prepared    the 
blow. 

His  vigoi'ous  remedy  displayed 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 


In  misery's  darkest  cavern  known. 
His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 

Where  hopeless  anguish  poured  his  groan, 
Aud  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mocked  by  chill  delay. 
No  petty  gain  disdained  by  piide; 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walked  their  narrow  round. 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  the  Eternal  blaster  found 
The  single  talent  well  employed. 


The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  niglit, 
Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by; 

His   frame  was   firm,  his   powers    were 
bright. 
Though  n  o  w  his  eightieth  j'ear  was  n igh. 

Then  with  no  fiery  throbl)ing  pain. 
No  cold  gradations  of  decay. 

Death  broke  at  once  tlie  vital  chain, 
And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 

[1714-1763.] 

THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven 

snow. 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does 

yield : 
Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I 

tiowe. 
As   is  the  harebell   that   adorns   the 

field  : 
And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does 

wield 
Tvvay   birchen  sprays;    with  anxious 

fear  entwined, 
With  dark  distrust,  aud  sad  repent- 
ance filled : 
And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction 

joined. 
And  fury  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement 

unkind. 


A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders 

thrown ; 
A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air  : 
'T  was  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her 

own ; 
'T  was  her  own  country  bred  the  flock 

so  fair, 
'T  was   her  own  labor  did  the  fleece 

prepare  ; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  ranged 

around, 
Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing 

ra  re ; 
For     they     in     gaping     Avonderment 

abound, 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  great- 
est wight  on  ground. 

Albeit    ne    flattery    did    corrupt    her 

truth, 
Ne  pompous  title  did  debaneh  her  ear; 
Goody,   good-woman,   gossip,  n'  aunt 

forsooth, 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did 

hear ; 
Yet   these  she  challenged,  these   she 

held  right  dear : 
Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  niought 

behove, 
Who  should  not  honored  eld  with  these 

tevere : 


'60 


SONGS   OF   TUREE    CENTURIES. 


For   never  title   yet   so   mean   could 
prove, 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that 
title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to 

feed, 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame  ; 
Which,  ever   and  auou,    impelled  by 

need. 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens, 

came ! 
Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment 

claim  : 
And,  if  Neglect  had  lavished  on  the 

ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect 

the  same ; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could 

exjwund. 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest 

crumb  she  found. 

Herbs  too  she  knew,  and  well  of  each 

could  speak 
That  iu  her  garden  sipped  the  silverj' 

dew ; 
"Where  no  vain  flower  disclosed  a  gaudy 

streak ; 
But  herbs  for  use,  and  physic,  not  a 

few. 
Of  gray  renown,  within  those  borders 

grew : 
The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 
Fresh  bauni,  and  niarygold  of  cheerful 

hue; 
The   lowly   gill,  that  never  dares  to 

climb ; 
And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining 

here  to  rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  nnsunj^, 
That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues 

around. 
And   pungent  radish,  biting  infant's 

tongue. 
And  plantain  ribbed,  tliat  heals  the 

reaper's  wound, 
And    marjoram    sweet,  in  shepherd's 

posy  found. 
And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure 

bli'om 
Sliall    be,   erewhile,    in   arid  bundles 

l)ound, 
To  lurk  amidst  the  labors  of  her  loom. 
And   crown    her    kercliiefs   clean   with 

mickle  rare  perfume.         » 


THOMAS  GRAY. 

[1716-1771.] 

ELEGY   WRITTEN    IN    A   COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  wiudsslowly  o'er  the  lea  ; 
The    ploughman     homeward   plods    his 

weary  way. 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to 

me. 

Now  f.  des  the  glimmering  landscape  on 

the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning 

flight, 
And   drowsy   tinklings  lull  the  distant 

folds ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 

The  mo))ing  owl  does  to  the  moon  com- 
plain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret 
bower. 

Molest  her  ancient  solitarj'  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew- 
tree's  shade. 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moul- 
dering heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing 
morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw- 
built  shed. 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing 
horn, 

No  more  sliall  rouse  them  from  their 
lowly  bed. 

For  them   no   more  the  blazing  hearth 

shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  7>ly  her  evening  care; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 
Or  climb  liis  knees  the  envied  kiss  to 

share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 
Their  furiow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has 
broke  ; 


THOMAS    GRAY. 


61 


How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team 

alield ! 
How   bowed   the   woods   beneath   their 

sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  Grandeur   hear   with   a   disdainful 

smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power,  , 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er 

gave, 
Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour; — ■ 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the 

fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies 

raise. 
Where  through  the  long-di'awn  aisle  and 

fretted  vault 
The  jiealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of 

praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to   its   mansion   call   the   fleeting 

breatli  ? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of 

Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial 

fire; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 

swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample 

jiage. 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er 

unroll ; 
Cliill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean 
bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  un- 
seen. 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  daunt- 
less breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 


Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may 
rest ; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  coun- 
try's blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  com- 
mand, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 
And  read  their  histoi'y  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their   lot  forbade :    nor    circumscribed 

alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes 

confined ; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a 

throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth 

to  hide. 
To   quench   the    blushes   of  ingenuous 

shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With   incense    kindled    at    the   Muse's 

flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble 

strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept   the  noiseless  tenor  of  their 

way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  pro- 
tect. 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncoutli  rhymes  and  shapeless 
sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,   their  years,  spelt  by  the 

unlettered  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  eleg}'  supply; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetful ness  a  prey. 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful 

day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  be- 
hind ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul 
relies. 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  re- 
quires ; 


62 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


E'en  from  the  lomh  the  voice  of  Nature 

flies, 
E'en  in  our  aslies  live  tlieir  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  wlio,  mindful  of  the  unhon- 
ored  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  re- 
late ; 

If  chanee,  hy  lone!}'  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy 
fate, 

Haplysome  hoary-headed  swain  may  say  : 
' '  Oft  iia  ve  we  seen  liimat  the  jieefi  of  dawn, 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn  ; 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding 

beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so 

high. 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he 

stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles 

by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in 
scorn. 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would 
rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  for- 
lorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hope- 
less love. 


"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  cus- 
tomed hi.l. 

Along  tiie  heath,  and  near  his  favorite 
tree  ; 

Another  came, — nor  yet  beside  tlie  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was 
he ; 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array. 
Slow  throiigli  the  church-way  path  we 

saw  1dm  borne;  — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read) 

the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged 

thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  la]i  of  eartli, 
A  youth   to  fortune   and   to  fame   un- 
known ; 


Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble 

birth. 
And  Melaucholyjnarked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sin- 
cere ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 

He  gave  to  IVlisery  (all  he  had)  a  tear  ; 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('t  was  all  he 
wished)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread 
abode : 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  re- 
pose,) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


ODE    ON    A    DISTANT  PROSPECT    OF 
ETON  COLLEGE. 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watery  glade. 
Where  gi-ateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade  ; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey ; 

Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flow- 
ers among 

Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
His  silver-winding  way ! 

Ah,  happy  hills  !  ah,  pleasing  shade ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  j^et  to  jiain : 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  Ijestow, 
As,  waviug  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 

AI\'  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe. 

And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 
To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  tliou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race. 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green, 

The  paths  of  pleasure;  trace. 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave? 
The  caiitive  liniu't  which  inthrall  ? 

What  idle  progeny  succeed 

To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 
Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 


WILLIAM   COLLINS. 


63 


While  some,  on  earnest  business  bent, 

Their  mui'inuring  lubors  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hmirs,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty, 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reigu, 
And  unknown  regions  dare  descry : 

Still  as  they  run,  they  look  behind  ; 

They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs,  by  fancy  fed, 
Less  pleasing  when  possesseil ; 

The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed. 
The  sunshine  of  the  breast. 

Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue. 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new, 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigor  born  ; 

The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night. 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light. 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn. 

Alas  !  regardless  of  their  doom. 

The  little  victims  play ; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  ; 
Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate. 
And  black  ilisfortune's  baleful  train. 

Ah !    show   them   where   in    ambush 
stand, 

To   seize  their  prey,  the  niurtherous 
band ; 
Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 

These  shall  the  fury  passions  tear. 

The  vultures  of  the  mind. 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame,  that  skulks  behind  ; 
Or  piniug  Love  shall  waste  their  youth. 
Or  .Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth. 
That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart ; 

And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 

Grim-visaged,  comfortless  Des[)air, 
And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 
•    Then  whirl  the  wi-etch  from  high. 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice. 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  tliose  shall  try, 
And  hard  Unkindness'  altered  eye. 
That  mo(tks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flovy ; 
And  k"en  Remorse  with  blood  defiled. 
And  mood}'  iladness  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 


Lo  !  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen, — 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  (pieen  : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins. 
That  every  laboring  sinew  straius. 
Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage : 

Lo!  Povert}',  to  fill  the- band. 

That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand ; 
And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  sufferings  :  all  are  men, 

Condenmed  alike  to  groan  ; 
The  tender  for  another's  jiain, 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah !    why  should  they  know  their 

fate. 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 
And  happiness  too  swiftly  Hies  ! 

Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 

No  more  ;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'T  is  folly  to  be  wise. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 

[1720 -1756.] 

DIRGE  IN  CYMBELINE. 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom. 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  sliall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here. 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen. 
No  goblins  lead  tlieir  nightly  crew  ; 

But  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redlireast  oft  at  evening  hours 
Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid. 

With  hoary  moss  and  gathered  flowers 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds  and  beating  raiu 
In  tempest  sluike  the  sylvan  cell. 

Or  midst  the  chase  upon  the  plain, 
The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell. 


64 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Each  lonoly  scene  shall  thoe  restore, 
For  thee  the  tear  he  duly  shed  ; 

Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 
And  mourned  till  Pity's  self  he  dead. 


ODE  TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 
May  hope,  chaste   Eve,  to   soothe   thy 
modest  ear. 
Like  thy  own  solemn  springs. 
Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales,  — 

0  nymph  reserved,  wliile  now  the  bright- 
haired  Sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy 
skirts, 
"With  braid  ethereal  wove, 
O'erliang  his  wavy  bed  : 

Kow  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak- 
eyed  bat, 
"With  short,  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leath- 
ern wing ; 
Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

• 

As  oft  he  ri.ses  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  ; 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 
To  breathe  some  softened  stiain. 

Whose   numbers,   stealing   through  thy 

darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial,  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  aiising  shows 
His  i>a]y  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp. 
The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her 

brows  with  sedge, 
And  .sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  love- 
lier still, 
The  pensivt!  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prejjare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy 

scene ; 
Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whosi-  \\;{]\h  moif  awful  nod 

By  tiiy  religious  gleams. 


Or,  if  chill,  blustering  winds,  or  driving 
rain. 

Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That  from  the  mountain's  side 
Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered 

spires ; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks 
o'er  all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual,  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as 

ott  he  wont. 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest 
Eve ! 
Wliile  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with 

leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous 
air, 
AflVights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes, — 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 
Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling 
Peace, 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  love  thv  favorite  name  ! 


JAMES   MERRICK. 
[1720- 1769.] 

THE  CHAMELEON. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A  ])roud,  conceiteil,  talking  .spark, 
With  eyes  that  haidly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  'gainst  a  po.st; 
Vet  round  the  woild  the  blade  has  been. 
To  see  winitever  could  be  seen. 
Returning  from  his  finished  tour. 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before  ; 
Whatever  word  you  chance  to  dioii. 
The  travelled  fool  your  mouth  will  stop  : 
"Sir,  if  my  judgment  you  'II  allow  — 
I  've  seen  —  and  sure  1  ought  to  know." 
So  begs  you  'd  jKiy  a  due  submission, 
And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 


65 


Two  travellers  of  such  a  cast, 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wilds  they  passed, 
And  on  their  way,  in  friendly  chat. 
Now  talked  of  tlii.s,  and  then  of  tliat. 
Discoursed  awhile,   'mongst  other  mat- 
ter, 
Of  the  chameleon's  form  and  nature. 
"A  stranger  animal,"  cries  one, 
"Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun: 
A  lizard's  body,  lean  and  long, 
A  fisli's  liead,  a  serpent's  tongue, 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoined; 
And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind  ! 
How  slow  its  pace  !  and  then  its  hue  — 
Who  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue?" 

"Hold  there,"  the  othei'  quick  replies; 
"'T  is  green,  1  saw  it  with  these  eyes. 
As  late  with  o])en  mouth  it  lay. 
And  warmed  it  in  the  sunny  raj' ; 
Stretched  at  its  ease  the  beast  I  viewed. 
And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food." 

"I  've  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you, 
And  must  again  affirm  it  blue ; 
At  leisure  I  the  'oeast  surveyed 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade." 

" 'T  is  green,  't  is  green,  sir,  I  assure 

"Green  !"  cries  the  other  in  a  fury; 
"Why,  sir,  d'ye  think    I've   lost   my 

eyes?" 
"  'T  were  nogreatloss,"  the  friend  replies ; 
"For  if  they  always  seiwe  you  thus. 
You  '11  find  them  but  of  little  use." 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  ro.se, 
From  words  they  almost  came  to  blows: 
When  luckily  came  by  a  third; 
To  him  tiie  question  they  referred, 
And  begged  he  'd  tell  them,  if  he  knew. 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 
"Sirs,"  cries  the  umpire,  "cease  your 

pother ; 
The  creature  's  neither  one  nor  t'  other. 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night. 
And  viewed  it  o'er  by  candlelight; 
I  marked  it  well,  't  was  black  as  jet  — 
You  stare^hut,  sirs,  I  've  got  it  yet. 
And  can  produce  it." —  "Pray,  sir,  do; 
I  '11  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  bhie." 
"And  I  '11  be  sworn,  that  when  you  've 

seen 
The  reptile,  you  '11  pronounce  himgreen." 
"Well,  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doubt," 
Replies  the  man,  "I  '11  turn  him  out; 
And  when  before  your  eyes  I  've  set  him. 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  I  '11  eat  him." 

He  said  ;  and  full  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  andlo  !  —  'twas  white. 


Both  stared ;  the  man  looked  wondrous 

wise  — 
"My  children,"  the  chameleon  cries 
(Then  first  the  creature  found  a  tongue), 
"You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong: 
When  next  you  talk  of  what  you  view. 
Think  others  see  as  well  as  you ; 
Nor  wonder  if  you  find  that  none 
Prefers  your  eyesight  to  his  own." 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

[1728 -1774.] 

FROM  "THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE." 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when   oft,  at 

evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  mxirmur  rose ; 
There,  as  I  passsed  witli  careless  steps  and 

slow. 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from 

below ; 
The   swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid 

sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their 

young; 
Thenoisy geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playlul  children  just  let  loose  from 

school ; 
The    watch-dog's  voice   that   bayed   the 

whisj)ei'ing  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 

mind,  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  souglit  the 

shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had 

made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  tlie 

gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway 

tread. 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing. 
That    feebly   bends    beside    the    plashy 

spring ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for 

bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cn'ss(;s 

sjnead. 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till 

morn ; 


66 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


She  only  left  of  all  the  haiTiiless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near   j^onder   copse,  where  once  the 

garden  smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a  garden    flower 

grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place 

disclose, 
The   village  preacher's  modest  mansion 

rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  countrv^  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with   forty  poiunls  a 

year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor   e'er    had    changed,   nor    wished   to 

change,  his  place ; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying 

hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to 

prize. 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than 

to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant 

train. 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved 

their  jiain  ; 
The    long-remembered    beggar   was   his 

guest. 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged 

breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer 

proud, 
Claimed    kindred    there,    and   had   his 

claims  allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his   fire,  and   talked   the   night 

away ; 
Wept  o'er  ids  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow 

done. 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how 

ficdds  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man 

learned  to  glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  I'aults  to 

scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his 

pride. 
And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's 

.side : 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he   prayed    and 

felt  for  all ; 


And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment 

tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the 

skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved   each   dull 

delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the 

way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was 

laid, 
And   sorrow,  guilt,  and    pain  by  turns 

dismayed. 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his 

control. 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling 

soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch 

to  raise, 
And  his  last,  faltering  accents  whispered 

praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected 

grace. 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double 

sway. 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained 

to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
Even  children  followed,  with  endearing 

wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good 

man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  ex- 

])i-essed, 
Their  welfare  jdeased  him,  and  their  cares 

distres(T?d  ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs, 

were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in 

heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  foim. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves 

the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 

are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts 

the  way. 

With  blossomed  furze  un profitably  gay," 

There,  inhisnoisymansion,  skilled  to  rule, 

The  village  master  taught  hislittleschool. 

!  A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view ; 

1 1  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew: 


THOMAS   PERCY. 


67 


"Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned 

to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 
Full  well  they  laughed,  with  counterfeited 

glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circlinground, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings    when   he 

frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village   all  declared  liow  much  he 

knew ; 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher 

too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  times  and  tides 

presage. 
And  eventhe  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge; 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could 

argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thun- 
dering sound 
Amazed  thegazingrustics  ranged  around ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder 

grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he 

knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fume.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  for- 
got. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on 

high, 
Where   once   the   sign-post   caught  the 

passing  eye. 
Low  lies  that   house   where   nut-brown 

draughts  inspired. 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil 

retired, 
Where    village    statesmen   talked  with 

looks  profound. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went 

round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place : 
The  whitewashed  wall ;  the  nicely  sanded 

floor ; 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind 

the  door ; 
The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by 

day ; 
The  pictures   placed   for  ornament  and 

use; 
The  twelve  good  rules ;  the  royal  game  of 

goose ; 


The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled 
the  day, 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fen- 
nel gay ; 

While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for 
.show, 

Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a 
row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendors !  could  not 

all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its 

fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  imjiai  t 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  pour  man's 

heart ; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  rejjair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's 

tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  pre- 
vail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  sliall 

clear. 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean 

to  hear. 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  Idss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 


THOMAS  PERCY. 

[1728- 1811.] 

THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 
Walked  forth  to  tell  his  beads, 

And  he  met  with  a  lady  fair, 
Clad  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds. 

"Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend 
friar ! 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me. 
If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 

My  true-love  thou  didst  see." 

"And  how  should  I  know  your  true-love 

From  many  another  one?" 
"Oh  !  by  his  cockle  hat,  and  staff. 

And  by  his  sandal  shoon ; 


68 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


"  But  chieflj'  by  his  face  and  mien, 

That  weie  so  fair  to  view, 
His  llaxeii  locks  that  sweetly  curled, 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue." 

"0  lady,  he  ife  dead  and  gone  ! 

Lady,  he  's  dead  and  gone  ! 
And  at  his  head  a  gieen  grass  turf. 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 

"  Within  these  holv  cloisters  long 

He  languished,  and  he  died. 
Lamenting  of  a  lady's  love. 

And  'jilaining  of  her  i)ride. 

"  Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 

Six  proper  youths  and  tall ; 
And  many  a  tear  bedewed  his  grave 

Within  }'on  kirkyard  wall." 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth  ? 

And  art  thou  dead  and  gone  ^ 
And  didst  thou  die  for  lovt;  of  me? 

Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone  !" 

"0,  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so; 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek  : 
Let  liot  vain  soirow  rive  thy  heart. 

Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek." 

"0  do  not,  do  not,  holy  fiiar. 

My  sorj'ow  now  re2>rove  ; 
For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 

That  e'er  won  lady's  love. 

"  And  now,  alas  !  for  thy  sad  loss 
I  "11  evermore  weep  and  sigh; 

For  thee  I  oidy  wished  to  live. 
For  thee  1  wish  to  die." 

"Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more  ; 

Tiiy  sorrow  is  in  vahi : 
For  violets  plucked,  the  sweetest  shower 

Will  nci'er  make  grow  again., 

"  Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  do  fly ; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  last? 
Sinite  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss. 

Grieve  not  for  what  is  past." 

"0,  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar! 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so ; 
For  since  my  true-love  died  for  me, 

'T  is  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

"  And  will  he  never  come  again  ? 
Will  he  ne'er  come  again? 


Ah,  no  !  he  is  dead,  and  laid  in  his  grave, 
Forever  to  remain. 

"  His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose, — 
Tlie  comeliest  youth  was  he ; 

But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 
Alas  !  and  woe  is  me." 

"  Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more. 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land, 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  fond,  hehadbeen  false. 
And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy ; 

For  young  men  ever  M'ere  fickle  found. 
Since  summer  trees  were  leaiy." 

"Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friai', 

I  I'ray  thee  say  not  so; 
My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart,  — 

0,  he  was  ever  true  ! 

"And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved 
youth, 

And  didst  thou  die  for  me? 
Then  farewell  home;  foivvermore 

A  pijgi-im  I  will  be. 

"  But  first  upon  my  true-love's  grave 

3ly  weary  limbs  1  '11  lay. 
And  thrice  I  '11  kiss  the  green  grass  turf 

That  wraps  his  breathless  clay." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  rest  awliile 

Beneath  this  cloister  wall ; 
The   cold  wind   through  the   hawthorn 
blows, 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall." 

"0,  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 

O  stay  me  not,  I  pray  ; 
No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me 

Can  wash  my  iault  away." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again. 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears ; 
For  see,  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 

Thy  own  true-love  appears. 

"  Here,  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love, 

These  holy  weeds  1  sought ; 
And  here,  amid  these  lonely  walls. 

To  end  my  days  I  thought. 

"  But  ha})ly,  for  my  year  of  grace 
Is  not  yet  passed  away, 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


69 


Might  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 
No  longer  would  I  stay." 

"Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy 

Qnce  more  unto  my  heart ; 
For  since  I  've  found  thee,  lovely  youth, 

We  nevermore  will  part." 


WILLIAM  COWPEK. 

[1731- 1800.] 

LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave 

Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds 

And  she  was  overset; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kenipenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  sea-tight  is  fought, 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak, 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 

His  fingers  held  the  pen. 
When  Kemi)enfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up. 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 

And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound. 

And  she  may  float  again. 
Full  (diarged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 


But  Kenipenfelt  is  gone. 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

0  THAT  those  lips  had  language  I     Life 

has  [lasscd 
With  me  but  roughly  since  1  heard  thee 

last. 
Those   lips   are   thine,  —  thy  own  sweet 

smile  1  see, 
The  same  that  oit  in  childhood  solaced 

me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say,. 
"Grieve   not,  my  child;  chase  all  thy 

fears  away  !" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  inunortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the 

same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
Who  bid'stnie  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly, .as  the  precept  were  her  own  ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
-A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 
My  mother  !   when  1  learned  that  thou 

wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tea  is  I 

shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even   then,    life's  journey  just 

begun  ? 
Perhaps  thougav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a 

kis^; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss  — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers  — 

Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursei'y  wiiidcnv, 

drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  \yas  it  such  ?     It  was.     Where  thou 

art  gone, 
Adieusandfarewellsareasonnd  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that   2't^^>ciful 

shore, 


70 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


The  parting  words  slmll  pass  my  lips  no 

more ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my 

coneern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  ((uiek  return  ; 
AVliat  ardently  I  wished  1  long  believed, 
And,  disapjiointed still,  wasstill  deceived  ; 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and 

went. 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
1  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  dejjlored  thee,  ne'er 

forgot. 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard 

no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nuisery 

floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with   my   bawble    coach,   and 

wrapped 
Inscarletmautle  warm,  and  velvetcapped, 
'T  is  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  ])astoral  house 

our  own. 
Hh()rt-liv(Hl  i)ossession  !  but  the  record  fair. 
That  memory  keeps- of  all  thy  kindness 

there. 
Still   outlives   many  a    storm    that   has 

efi'aced 
A   thousand    other   themes   less   deeply 

traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made. 
That   tliou   mightst   know  me  safe  and 

warmly  laid, — 
All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than 

all, 
Tliy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no 

fall, 
Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and 

breaks 
That  humor  interposed  toooften  makes,  — 
All  tliis,  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  tliee  as  my  numbers  may  ; 
Peihaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sinceie. 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  no- 
ticed here. 
Could  Time,  his  llight  reversed,  restore 

the  hours 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued 

flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  je.ssnmine, 
1  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin. 


(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the 
while, 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my 
head,  and  smile,)  — 

Could  those  lew  pleasant  days  again  ap- 
pear. 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish 
them  here  ? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart, — the  dear 
delight 

Seemssoto  be  desired,  jierhaps  I  might. 

But  no, — what  here  we  call  our  life  is 
such. 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 

That  1  should  ill  re(|Uite  thee  to  con- 
strain 

Thy  unbound  spiiit  into  Vonds  again. 
Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's 
coast 

(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean 
crossed) 

Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened 
isle. 

Where  s{iices  breatlie  and  brighter  sea- 
sons smile ; 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  Hoods,  that 
show 

Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  be-, 
low, 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense 
play 

Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers 

gf'y.  — 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  switt  !  hast 
reached  tlie  shore. 

Where  tempests  never  beat,  nor  billows 
roar  ; 

And  thy  loved  consort,  on  the  dangerous 
tide 

Of  life,  long  since  has  anchored  by  tl'y 
side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest. 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  dis- 
tressed, — 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tem- 
pest-tossed. 

Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and 
compass  lost; 

And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting 
force 

Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous 
course. 

Yet  0,  the  thought  that  thou  ait  safe, 
and  he ! — 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to 
me. 

My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 


WILLIAM   JULIUS    MICKLE. 


71 


From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the 

earth ; 
But  higher   far  my   proud   pretensions 

rise, — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell !  —  Tinif,  unrevoked, 

has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is 

done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in 

vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er 

again,  — 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  w^ere 

mine 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 
And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are 

free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Tune    has    but   half    succeeded    in    his 

theft,  — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me 

left. 


MYSTERIES  OF  PROVIDENCE. 

Gor>  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform ; 
He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  .storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  ti-easures  up  Ids  bright  designs, 

And  works  his  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fre.sh  courage  take ! 

The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  men'v,  and  shall  break 

In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense. 
But  trust  him  for  his  grace ; 

Behind  a  frowning  providence 
He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purjioses  will  ripen  fast. 

Unfolding  every  hour; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unlielief  is  sure  to  err. 
And  scan  his  works  in  vain  ; 

God  is  his  own  interpreter. 
And  he  will  make  it  plain. 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 

[1734- 1788.] 

THE  MARINER'S  "WTFE. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  are  ye  sure  he  's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark  ? 

Mak  haste,  lay  by  your  wheel ; 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Colin  's  at  the  door  ? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I  '11  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there  's  nae  luck  about  the  house. 

There  's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There  's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudemau  's  awa'. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop's  satin -gown  ; 
For  i  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 

That  Colin  's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on. 

My  stockings  pearly  Vilue  ; 
It 's  a'  to  ))leasure  our  gudeman, 

For  he  's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  la.ss,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown. 

And  .lock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slae.s, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gu<ieman, 

For  he  's  been  lang  awa'. 

There  's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop, 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare ; 
And  mak  our  table  neat  and  clean, 

Let  everything  look  braw. 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'  ? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in  't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  sy)eak  ? 
I  'm  downright  di/zy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  i  'm  like  to  greet ! 

The  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter  wind, 
That  thirled  through  my  heart, 


72 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Tliey  're  a'  blawn  1iy,  I  liae  him  safe, 
Till  death  we'll  never  ))art ; 

But  what  puts  ))artiiig  in  my  head? 
It  may  be  tar  awa' ! 

The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 
The  neist  we  never  saw. 

Since  Colin  's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  niair  to  crave ; 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae, 

I  'm  blest  aboun  tlie  lave. 
And  will  1  see  his  face  again? 

And  will  I  hear  him  sjieak? 
1  'ni  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought. 

In  troth  1  'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there 's  nae  hick  about  the  house, 

There  's  nae  lu(!k  at  a' ; 
There  's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudtman  's  awa'. 


JAMES   BEATTIE. 

[173S-1803.] 

THE  HERMIT. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  Avhen  the  ham- 
let is  still, 

And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness 
prove, 

When  naught  but  the  torrent  is  heard 
on  the  hill, 

And  naught  but  the  nightingale's  song 
in  the  grove, 

'T  was  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  moun- 
tain afar, 

While  his  liarp  rung  symjihonious,  a 
hermit  began  ; 

No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at 
wn  r, 

He  tliouglit  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as 
a  man  : 

"Ah!  why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness 
and  woe. 

W'liy,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing 
fall? 

For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  be- 
stow. 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthrall. 

But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  tlie  sad 
lay, — 

!Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls 
thee  to  mourn ; 


0,  soothe  him  whose  pleasures  like  thine 

pass  away  ! 
Full  quickly  they  pass, —  but  they  never 

return. 

"Now,  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the 
sky. 

The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her  cres- 
cent displays ; 

But  lately  I  marked  when  majestic  on 
high  . 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in 
her  blaze. 

Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  glad- 
ness 2)ursue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor 
again ! 

But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall 
renew? 

Ah,  fool :  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

"'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely 
no  more. 

I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn 
not  for  you  ; 

For  morn  is  aj>proaching  your  charms  to 
I'cstore, 

Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glit- 
tering with  dew. 

Nor  yet  tor  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn,— 

Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will 
save ; 

But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  moulder- 
ing urn? 

0,  when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night  of 
the  giave ? 

"  'T  was  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science 
betrayed, 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to 
blind. 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade 
OTUvard  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  be- 
hind. 

'0  pity,  great  Father  of  light,'  then  I 
cried, 

'Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wan- 
der fiom  thee ! 

Lo,  hunxblcd  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my 
|iride ; 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only 
canst  free ! ' 

"And  darkness  and  doubt  arc  now  flying 

away  ; 
No  longer  I  roam  in  coujectuie  foilorn. 


joh;n  langhoene.  —  mes.  thrale. 


to 


So    breaks    on    the    traveller,   faint  and 

astray, 
The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of 

morn.    , 
See   truth,  love,  and  mercy  in  triumph 

descending, 
And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's   first 

bloom  ! 
On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and 

roses  are  blending, 
And  beauty  immortal  awakes  fVoni  the 

tomb." 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 

[1735-1779] 

THE  DEAD. 

Of  them  who,  wrapt  in  earth  so  cold, 
No  more  the  smiling  day  shall  view, 

Should  many  a  tender  tale  be  told, 
For  many  a  tender  thought  is  due. 

Why  else  the  o'ergrown  ]iaths  of  time 
Would  thus  the  lettered  sage  ex[ilore, 

With  pain  these  crumbling  ruins  climb. 
And  on  the  doubtful  sculpture  pore  ? 

Why  seeks  he  with  unwearied  toil. 
Through  Death's  dim  walks  to  urge  his 
way, 

Eeclaim  his  long-asserted  spoil, 
And  lead  oblivion  into  day  ? 

'T  is  nature  prompts,  by  toil  or  fear. 
Unmoved,   to  range   through  Death's 
domain ; 

The  tender  parent  loves  to  hear 
Her  children's  story  told  again ! 


MRS,  THRALE. 

[1740- 1822.] 

THE  THREE  WARNINGS. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
liCast  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground; 
'T  was  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages, 


When  pains   grow  sliarp   and   sickness 
rages. 
The  greatest  love  of  life  a^ipears. 
This  great  affection  to  believe, 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail. 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were 

gay. 

On  neighbor  Dodson's  wedding-day, 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room, 
And,  looking  grave,  "You  must,"  says 

he, 
"Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with 

me." 
"With  you  !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side? 
With  you!"  the  hapless  husband  cried; 
"Young  as  I  am,  'tis  monstrous  hard! 
Besides,  in  truth,  1  'm  not  prepared: 
My  thou^its  on  other  matters  go  ; 
This  is  my  wediling-day,  you  know." 

What  more  he  urged  I  have  not  heard, 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger; 
So  Death  the  poor  delinquent  siiared, 

And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Yet  calling  up  a  serious  look. 
His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke. 
"Neighbor,"  he  said,  "farewell !  no  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour ; 
And  further,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name, 
To  give  you  time  for  j)reparation, 
And  fit  you  for  j^our  future  station, 
Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have. 
Before  you  're  suTumoned  to  the  grave  ; 
Willing  for  once  I  '11  quit  my  prey. 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve. 
In  hopes  you  '11  have  no  more  to  say, 
But  when  I  call  again  this  way, 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented, 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 
How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how  well. 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course. 
And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his 
horse. 

The  willing  muse  shall  tell : 
He  chaffered,  then  he  bought  and  sold, 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old. 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near : 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 


74 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 
But  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  increase, 
AV'hile  thus  along  lil'e's  dusty  road 
Till;  lieateu  track  content  he  trod, 
Old  Time,  whose  liaste  no  mortal  spares, 
Uncalled,  uidieeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  all  alone-he  sate. 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 

Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half  killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 
"So  soon  retuined!"  Old  Dodson  cries. 
"So  soon,  d'  ye  call  it !"  Death  replies  ; 
"Surely,  my  friend,  you  're  but  in  jest ! 

Since  I  was  here  before 
'T  is  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 

"So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  re- 
joined; 
"To  .spare  the  aged  would  be  kind: 
However,  see  your  search  be  legal; 
And  your  authority,  —  is  't  resal' 
i,lse  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand. 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant. 
Beside,    you   promised  me  three  warn- 
ings. 
Which    I   have   looked   for  nights  and 

moinings ; 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease 
I  can  recover  damages." 

"I  know,"  cries  Death,  "that  at  the 
best 
I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least: 
I  little  thought  you  'd  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable: 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  gieat  length  ; 
I  wish  you  jo3%  though,  of  your  strength  ! " 

"Hold,"  says  the  farmer,  "not  so  fast ! 
I  have  b(!en  lame  these  four  years  past." 

"And  no  great  wonder,"  Death  replies: 
"However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes; 
And  sure  to  .see  one's  loves  and  friends 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends." 

"Perhaps,"  says  Uodson,  "soitmight. 
But  latterly  1  've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  't  is  true ; 
But  still  there  's  cfimfDrt  left  for  you  : 
F.acli  strives  your  saiiiiess  to  amuse  ; 
I  warrant  you  hear  all  the  news." 

"  There  's  none,"  cries  he  ;  and  if  there 
were, 


I  'm  grown  so  deaf,  I  could  not  hear." 
"Nay,   then,"    the   spectre  stern  re- 
joined, 
"The.se  are  unjustifiable  yearnings: 
If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind. 
You  've     had     your    three    sufficient 
warnings ; 
So  come  along,  no  more  we  '11  part." 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 
And  now  Old  Dodson,  turning  pale. 
Yields  to  his  fate,  —  so  ends  my  tale. 


ANNA  L.  BARBAULD.    ' 

[1743 -1 825.] 

THE  SABBATH  OF  THE  SOUL. 

Sleep,  .sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born  ; 
Ye  shall  not  dim  the  light  that  streams 

From  this  celestial  morn. 

To-morrow  w  ill  be  time  enough 

To  feel  your  harsh  control ; 
Ye  .shall  not  violate,  this  day, 

The  Sabbath  of  my  soul. 

Sleep,  .sleep  forever,  guilty  thoughts ; 

Let  fires  of  vengeance  die  ; 
And,  puiged  fiom  sin,  may  I  behold 

A  God  of  purity ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VIRTUOUS. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies! 

When  sinks  a  righteous  soul  to  rest, 
How  mildly  beam  the  closing  eyes. 

How  gently  heaves  the  expiring  breast ! 

So  fades  a  summer  cloud  away. 

So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are  o'er, 

So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day. 
So  dies  a  wave  along  the  shore. 

Triumidiant  smiles  the  victor  brow, 
Fanned  by  some  angel's  purple  wing ;  — 

Wlieie  is,  O  grave  !  thy  victory  now  ? 
And    where,    insidious     death !     thy 
sting '{ 

Farewell,  oonnieting  joys  and  f(>ars. 
Where  light  antl  shaile  alternate  dwell  I 


SUSANNA   BLAMIRE.  —  JOHN   LOGAN. 


75 


How   bright  tlie  nnchaiigiiig  morn  ap- 
pears ;  — 
Farewell,  inconstant  world,  farewell ! 

Life's  labor  done,  as  sinks  the  day. 
Light  from  its  load  the  spirit  Hies ; 

While  heaven  and  earth  combine  to  say, 
"Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies  ! " 


LIFE. 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
Aud  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 

l^ife!  we've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and   through  cloudy 

weather; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear,  — 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 
- — Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning. 

Choose  thine  own  time ; 
Say  not   Good   Night,  —  but    in   some 
brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good  Moining. 


SUSANNA  BLAMIRE. 
[1747-1794.] 

WHAT  AILS  THIS  HEART  O'  MINE? 

What  ails  this  heart  o'  miue? 

What  ails  this  watery  ee  ? 
What  gars  me  a'  turn  j)ale  as  death 

When  1  take  leave  o'  thee? 
When  thou  art  far  awa', 

Thou  'It  dearer  grow  to  me ; 
But  change  0'  place  and  change  0'  folk 

May  gar  thy  fancy  jee. 

When  I  gae  out  at  e'en. 

Or  walk  at  morning  air, 
Ilk  rustling  bush  will  seem  to  say, 

I  used  to  meet  thee  there. 
Then  1  '11  sit  down  and  cry, 

And  live  aneath  the  tree, 
And  when  a  leaf  fa's  i'  my  lap, 

1  '11  ca'  't  a  word  frae  thee. 

I  '11  hie  me  to  the  bower 
That  thou  wi'  roses  tied. 


And  where  wi'  mony  a  blushing  bud 

1  strove  myself  to  hide. 
I  '11  doat  on  ilka  spot 

Where  I  ha'e  been  wi'  thee ; 
And  ca'  to  mind  some  kindly  word, 

By  ilka  burn  and  tree. 


JOHN  LOGAN. 

[1748-178S.] 

TO  THE   CUCKOO. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove! 

Thou  messenger  of  spring  ! 
Now  heaven  rejiairs  thy  lural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

AVhat  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green. 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear; 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant!  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  liowers. 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  school-boy,  wandering  through  the 
wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay. 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  s[)ring  to  hear. 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  Hiest  thy  vocal  vale. 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  bower  is  ever  green. 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year  ! 

0,  could  I  fly,  I  'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We  'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe. 

Companions  of  the  spring. 


YARROW  STREAM. 

TiiY  banks  were  bonnie.  Yarrow  stream. 
When  first  on  thee  I  met  my  lover; 
Thy  banks  how  dreary,  Yari'ow  stream, 
When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover ! 


76 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Forever  now,  0  Yarrow  stream, 
Thou  art  to  nie  a  stream  of  sorrow ; 
For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 
Behold  my  love,  —  the  tlower  of  Yarrow ! 

He  promised  me  a  milk-white  horse, 
To  bear  me  to  his  father's  bowers ; 
He  promised  me  a  little  page, 
To  scpiire  me  to  his  father's  towers. 

He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring. 
The  wedding-day  was  fixed  to-morrow ; 
Now  he  is  wecKled  to  his  giave, 
Alas  !  a  watery  grave  in  Yarrow  ! 

S^weet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met, 
My  passion  as  I  freely  told  him  ; 
Clasped  in  his  arms,  I  little  thought 
That  I  should  nevermore  behold  him. 

Scarce  was  he  gone,  I  saw  his  ghost, — 
It  vanished  with  a  shriek  of  sorrow  ; 
Thrice  did  the  "Water  Wraith  ascend. 
And  give  a  doleful  groan  through  Yarrow ! 

His  mother  from  the  window  looked, 
AVith  all  the  longing  of  a  mother; 
His  little  sister,  weeping,  walked 
The  greenwood  path  to  meet  her  brother. 

They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him 

west. 
They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough  ; 
Tliey  only  saw  the  clouds  of  night, 
They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow  ! 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look,  — 
Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother ! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid, — 
Alas.'- thou  hast  no  more  a  brother! 

No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west, 
No  longer  search  the  forest  thorough, 
For,  murdered  in  the  night  so  daik, 
He  lies  a  lifeless  corpse  in  Yarrow  ! 

The  tears  sh.all  never  leave  my  cheek; 
No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow; 
I  'II  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream, 
And  thei(^  with  thee  I  '11  sleej)  in  Yarrow  ! 

The  tear  ditl  never  leave  her  check  : 
No  other  youth  became  her  marrow; 
Slie  found  his  body  in  the  stream, 
And  with  him  now  she  sleeps  in  Yarrow. 


UNKNOWN. 

BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL. 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 

And  low  upon  Tay, 
Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Kade  out  on  a  day. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  gallant  rade  he  ; 
Hame  came  his  gude  horse, 

But  never  came  he. 

Out  came  his  auld  mither 

Greeting  fu'  sair. 
And  out  came  his  bonnie  bride 

Rivin'  her  hair. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he  ; 
Toom  hame  came  the  saddle, 

But  never  came  he. 

"  My  meadow  lies  green. 

And  my  corn  is  unshorn  ; 
My  barn  is  to  build. 

And  my  babie  's  unborii." 
Saddled  and  l)ridled 

And  booted  rade  he  ; 
Toom  hame  came  the  saddle, 

But  never  came  he  ! 


UNKNOWN. 

"WALY,  WALY,  BUT  LOVE  BE  BONNY. 

0,  AVALY,  waly  XI ])  the  bank. 

And  waly,  waly  down  the  brae, 
And  waly,  waly  yon  burnside. 

Where  I  and  my  love  wont  to  gae. 
I  leaned  my  back  unto  an  aik. 

And  tliought  it  was  a  trusty  tree. 
But  first  it  bowed,  and  syne  it  brak', 

Sae  my  true  love  did  lightly  me. 

O,  waly,  waly,  Init  love  is  bonny, 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new  ; 
But  when  'tis  auld,  it  waxetli  cauld. 

And  fades  away  like  moiiiing  dew. 
0,  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  hend? 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  lie  11  never  love  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-Seat  shall  be  my  bed. 
The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  filled  by  me; 


UNKNOWN. 


77 


Saint  Anton's  well  shall  be  my  drink, 
Since  my  true  love  's  forsaken  me, 

Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 
And  shake  the  green   leaves  off  the 
tree? 

0  gentle  death  !  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 
For  of  my  life  I  am  weary. 

T  is  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blowing  snow's  inclemency ; 
'T  is  not  sic  eauld  that  makes  me  cry. 

But  mj'  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town, 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see ; 
My  love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 

And  I  mysel'  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kissed. 
That  love  had  been  so  ill  to  win, 

1  'd  locked  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gold. 

And  ])inne(l  it  with  a  silver  pin. 
And  0,  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 
And  I  mysel'  wei'e  dead  and  gane, 

Wi'  the  green  grass  growing  over  me ! 


UNKNOWN. 

LADY  MARY  ANN. 

0,  Lady  Mary  Ann  looked  o'er  the  cas- 
tle wa'. 

She  saw  three   bonnie   boys  playing  at 
the  ba', 

The  youngest  he  was  the  flower  amang 
them  a' : 
My  bonnie  laddie's  young,  but  he's 
growin'  yet. 

"0  father,  0  father,  an'  ye  think  it  fit. 
We  '11  send  him  a  year  to  the  college  yet : 
We  '11  sew  a  green  ribbon  round  about 

his  hat, 
And  that  will  let   them  ken  he  's  to 

marry  yet." 

Lady  Mary  Ann  was  a  flower  in  the  dew. 
Sweet  was  its  smell,  and  bonnie  was  its 

hue, 
And  the  langer  it  blossomed  the  sweeter 

it  gi-ew ; 
For  the  lily  in  the  bud  will  be  bonnier 

yet. 


Young  Charlie  Cochran  was  the  sprout 

of  an  aik, 
Bonnie  and  blooming  and  .straight  was 

its  make, 
The  sun  took   delight   to   shine  foi-  its 

sake  ; 
And  it  will  be  the  brag  o'  the  forest  yet. 

The  summer  is  gone  when  the  leaves  they 

were  green, 
And  the  days  are  awa'  that  we  hae  seen, 
But  far  better  days  I   trust  will  come 

again ; 
For  my  bonnie   laddie 's   young,    but 

he  's  growing  yet. 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  BOATIE  ROWS. 

0,  WEEL  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  better  may  she  speed  ; 
And  liesome  may  the  boatie  low 

That  wins  the  bairnies'  bread. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed; 
And  weel  may  the  boatie  row 

That  wins  the  bairnies'  bread. 

I  coost  my  line  in  Largo  Bay, 

And  fishes  I  catched  nine ; 
'T  was  three  to  boil  and  three  to  fry, 

And  three  to  bait  the  line. 
The  boatie  lows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  indeed. 
And  happy  be  the  lot  o'  a' 

Wha  wishes  her  to  speed. 

0,  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

That  fills  a  heavy  creel. 
And  deeds  us  a'  frae  tap  to  tae, 

And  buys  our  parritch  meal. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows,  indeed, 
And  happy  be  the  lot  o'  a' 

That  wish  the  boatie  speed. 

When  Jamie  vowed  he  wad  be  mine. 

And  wan  frae  me  my  heart, 
0,  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel  — 

He  swore  we  'd  never  part. 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ; 
And  muckle  lighter  is  the  load 

When  love  bears  up  the  creel. 


"8 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


My  kurtcli  T  put  npo'  my  head,' 

And  dressed  iiiysel'  fu    liravv; 
I  trow  my  heart  was  dough  and  wae, 

When  Jamie  gade  awa'. 
But  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 

And  huky  b(;  her  part. 
And  lightsome  be  tlie  lassie's  care 

That  yields  an  honest  heart. 


UNKNOWN. 

GLENLOGIE. 

TuREESCOKE  o'  nobles  rade  up  the  king's 

lia', 
But    bonnie   Glenlogie  's  the   flower    o' 

them  a', 
Wi'  his  milk-white  steed  and  his  bonnie 

black  e'e, 
"Glenlogie,  dear  mither,  Glenlogie  for 

me!" 

"0,  hand  your  tongue,  daughter,  ye '11 

get  better  than  he." 
"0,  say  nae  sae,  mither,  for  that  canna 

be; 
Though  Doumlie  is   rieher  and   greater 

than  he. 
Yet  if  I  maun  tak  him,   I  '11  certainly 

dee. 

"Where  will  T  get  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win 

hose  and  slioon. 
Will  gae  to  Glenlogie,  and  come  again 

nil 

soon? 
"0,  here  am  I  a  bonnie  boy,  to  win  hose 

and  shoon, 
Will   gae   to  Glenlogie  and  come  again 

soon." 

When    he    gaed     to     Glenlogie,    't  was 

"  Wash  and  go  dine"  ; 
'T  was  "  Wash  ye,   n)y  j»retty  boy,  wash 

and  go  dine." 
"0,  't  was  ne'er  my  father's  fashion,  and 

it  ne'er  shall  lie  mine 
To  gar  a  lady's  errand  wait  till  I  dine. 

"But   there   is,    Glenlogie,  a  letter  for 

thee." 
The  first  line  that  he  read,  a  low  laugh 

gave  he  J 


The   next   line   that   he  read,   the  tear 

blindit  his  e'e ; 
But  the  last  line  that  he  read,  he  gart 

the  table  flee. 

"  Gar  saddle  the  black  horse,  gar  saddle 

the  bi'own  ; 
Gar  saddle  the  swiftest  steed  e'er  rade 

frae  a  town"  : 
But  lang  ere  the  horse  was  drawn  and 

brought  to  the  green, 
0,  bonnie    Glenlogie  was  twa  mile   his 

lane. 

Wlien  he  came  to  Glenfeldy's  door,  little 
mirth  was  there ; 

Bonnie  Jean's  mother  was  tearing  her 
hair. 

"Ye 're  welcome,  Glenlogie,  ye 're  wel- 
come," said  she,  — 

"Ye  're  welcome,  Glenlogie,  your  Jeanie 
to  see." 

Pale  and  wan  was  she,   when  Glenlogie 

gaed  ben. 
But  red  and  rosy  grew  she,  whene'er  he 

sat  down ; 
She  turned  awa'  her  head,  but  the  smile 

was  in  her  e'e, 
"  0,  binna  feared,  mither,  I  '11  maybe  no 

dee." 


UNKNOWN. 

JOHN  DAVIDSON. 

John  Davidson  and  Tib  his  wife 
Sat  toastin'  their  taes  ae  niglit. 

When  somethin'  started  on  the  tluir 
An'  blinked  by  their  sight. 

"Guidwife!"  quo'  John,  "did  ye   see 
that  mouse  ? 
Whar  sorra  was  the  cat?" 
"A  mouse?" — "Ay,  a  mouse."  —  "Na, 
na,  Guidman, 
It  wasna  a  mouse,  't  was  a  rat." 

"Oh,  oh!  Guidwife,  to  think  ye 've  been 

Sae  lang  about  the  house 
An'  no  to  ken  a  mouse  frae  a  rat ! 

Yon  wasna  a  rat,  but  a  mouse ! " 

"I've  seen  mair  mice  than  you,  Guid- 
man, 
An'  what  think  ye  o'  that  ? 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN.  —  THOMAS   CHATTERTON. 


79 


Sae  hand  your  tongue  an'  say  naemair,  — 
1  tell  ye  'twas  a  rat." 

"Me  baud  my  tongue  for  you,  Guidwife  ! 

1  'U  be  uiaister  o'  this  house,  — 
I  saw  it  as  plain  as  een  could  see, 

An'  I  telt  ye  't  was  a  mouse ! 

"  If  you  're  the  maister  o'  the  house, 

It"'s  I'm  the  uiistiess  o'  't; 
An'  I  ken  best  what 's  i'  the  house,  — 

Sae  I  tell  ye  't  was  a  rat." 

' '  Weel,  weel ,  0  uid  wife,  gae  mak  the  brose, 

An'  ca  it  what  ye  please." 
Sae  up  she  gat  an'  made  the  brose. 

While  John  sat  toastin'  bis  tae.s. 

They   suppit  an'   suppit  an'  suppit  the 
brose, 
An'  aye  their  lips  pbiyed  smack  ; 
They  suppit  an'   suppit  an'  suppit  the 
brose 
Till  their  lugs  began  to  crack. 

"  Sic  fules  we  were  to  fa'  out,  Guidwife, 
About  a  mouse."  —  "A  what ! 

It  's  a  lee  ye  tell,  an'  I  say  again  ^ 
It  wasna  a  mouse,  't  was  a  rat. 

"Wad  ye  ca'  me  a  leear  to  my  very  face? 

My  I'iiith,  but  ye  craw  croose  !  — 
I  tell  y(S  Tib,  1  never  will  bear  't,  — 

'T  was  a  mouse."  — "'T  was  a  rat."  — 
"'Twas  a  mouse." 

Wi'  that  she  struck  him  ower  the  pow. 

"Ye  dour  auld  doit,  tak'  that! 
Gae  to  your  bed,  ye  cankered  sumph  !^ 

'T  was  arat."— "'T  was  a  mouse!"  — 
"  'T  was  a  rat ! " 


She  sent  the  brose-cup  at  his  heels 

As  he  hirplcd  ben  the  house  ; 
But  he  shoved  out  his  head  as  he  steekit 
the  door, 
An'  cried.   '"T  was  a  mouse,  't  was  a 
mouse !" 

Yet  when  the  auld  carle  fell  asleep, 

She  paid  hiiu  back  for  that, 
An'  roared  into  his  sleepin'  lug, 

"'T  was  a  rat,  't  was  a  rat,  't  wasarat ! 

The  deil  be  wi'  me,  if  I  think 

It  was  a  beast  at  all. 
Next  mornin',  when  she  sweept  the  floor, 

She  found  wee  Johnie's  ball ! 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHER- 
IDAN. 

[1751-1816.] 

HAD    I    A    HEART   FOR   FALSEHOOD 
FRAMED. 

Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 

1  ne'er  could  injure  you ; 
For  though    your    tongue   no   promise 
claimed, 

Your  charms  would  make  me  true: 
To  you  no  soul  shall  bear  deceit, 

No  stranger  offer  wrong ; 
But  friends  iii  all  the  aged  you  '11  meet, 

And  lovers  in  the  young. 

For  when  they  learn  that  you  have  blest 

Another  with  your  heart. 
They  '11  bid  aspiring  passion  rest, 

And  act  a  brother's  part. 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit. 

Nor  fear  to  sutler  wrong; 
For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you  '11  meet, 

And  brothers  in  the  young. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

[1752- 1770.] 

THE  MINSTREL'S  SONG  IN  ELLA. 

0,  SING  unto  my  roundelay  ! 

0,  dro])  the  briny  tear  with  me ! 
Dance^  no  more  at  holiday. 
Like  a  running  river  be. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night. 

White  his  neck  as  the  summer  snow, 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light ; 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below. 
My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle's  note. 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 
0,  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree  ! 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 


80 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Hark  !  the  ravon  flaps  liis  wing 

In  the  biiered  dell  below  ; 
Hark  !  the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 
My  lov(!  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  deatii-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See  !  the  white  moon  shines  on  high  ; 

Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud, 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky. 
Whiter  tlian  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love's  grave, 
Shall  the  garish  flowers  be  laid, 
Kor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a  maid, 
ily  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed. 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  1  '11  bind  the  briers 

liound  his  holy  corse  to  gre ; 
Elfin-fairy,  light  your  fires, 
Heie  my  body  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn, 

Drain  my  heart's  blood  all  away; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn. 
Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Water-witches,  crowned  with  reytes. 
Bear  rhe  to  your  deadly  tide. 

I  die  —  1  come  —  my  true-love  waits. 
Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died. 


GEOEGE   CPtABDE. 

[1754-1832] 

ISAAC  ASHFORD. 

Xkxt  to  these  ladies,  but  in  naught 
allied, 
A  noble  jiensant,  Isaac  Ashfovd,  died. 
Koble  he  was,  contemningall  things  mean, 


His   truth    unquestioned   and   his   soul 
seiene : 

Of  no  man's  presence  Isaac  felt  afraid  ;    . 

At  no  man's  question  Isaac  looked  dis- 
mayed : 

Shame  knew    him   not,  he   dreaded   no 
disgrace ; 

Truth,  simple  truth,  was  written  in  his 
face ; 

Yet  while  the  serious  thought  his  soul 
approved. 

Cheerful  he  seemed,  and  gentleness  he 
loved ; 

To  bliss  domestic  he  his  heart  resigned, 

And  with  the  firmest,   had  the  londe.-t 
mind. 

Were  others  joyful,  he  looked  smiling  on, 

And  gave  allowance  wheie  he  needeil  none  ; 

Good  he  refused  witli  future  ill  to  buy, 

Nor  knew  a  joy  that  caused  lellection's 
sigh. 

A  friend  to  virtue,  his  unclouded  breast 

No  envy  stung,  no  jealousy  distressed 

(Bane  of  the  i)oor !  it  wounds  their  ■«  eaker 
mind 

To  miss  one  favor  which  their  neighbors 
find) ; 

Yet  far  was  he  from  stoic  ])ride  removed  ; 

He  felt  humanely,  and  he  warmly  loved. 

I  marked  his  action  when  his  infant  died, 

And  his  old  neigh Ixjr  for  oflence  was  tried  ; 

The  .still  tears,  stealing  down  that  fur- 
rowed cheek. 

Spoke  ])ity  plainer  than  the  tongue  can 
speak. 

If  pride  were  his,  't  was  not  their  vulgar 
pride 

Who,  in  their  base  contempt,  the  great 
deiide  ; 

Nor  pride  in  leai-ning,  though  my  clerk 
agreed. 

If  fate  should  call  him,  Ashford  might 
succeed  ; 

Nor  pridein  rustieskill,  although  wekncw 

Noni'  his  su])eiior,  and  his  e(|nals  few  : 

But  if  that  spirit  in  his  soul  had  place. 

It  was  the  jealous  ]n-ide  that  shuns  dis- 
grace ; 

A  pride  in  honest  fame,  by  virtue  gained. 

In  sturdy  lioys  to  virtuous  labors  trained  ; 

Pride  in  the  power  that  guards  his  coun- 
try's coast. 

And  all  that  Englishmen  enjoy  and  boast ; 

Pride  in  a  life  that  slander's  tongue  defied, 

In  fact,  a  noble  passion,  misnamed  pride. 
He  had  no  party's  rage,  no  sectary's 
whim ; 


SAMUEL   KOGEES. 


81 


Christian  and  countryman  was  all  with 
him, 

True  to  his  church  he  came,  no  Sunday- 
shower 

Kept  him  at  home  in  that  important  hour ; 

Nor  his  firm  feet  could  one  ])ersuadiiig  sect 

By  the  strong  glare  of  their  new  light 
direct :  — 

"On  hope,  in  mine  own  sober  light,  I  gaze, 

But  should  be  blind  and  lose  it  in  your 
blaze." 
In  times  severe,  when  many  a  sturdy 
swain 

Felt  it  his  pride,  his  comfort,  tocomplain, 

Isaac  their  wants  would  soothe,  his  own 
would  hide, 

And  feel  in  that  his  comfort  and  his  pride. 
At  length  he  found,  when  seventy  years 
were  run, 

His  strength  departed  and  his  labor  done ; 

When,  save  his  honest  fame,  he  kept  no 
more ; 

But  lost  his  wife  and  saw  his  children 
poor. 

'T  was  then  a  spark  of — say  not  discon- 
tent— 

Struck  on  his  mind,  and  thus  he  gave  it 
vent: 
"Kind  are  your  laws  ('tis  not  to  be 
denied) 

That  in  yon  house  for  ruined  age  provide, 

And  they  are  just ;  when  young,  we  give 
you  all, 

And  then  for  comforts  in  our  weakness 
call. 

Why  then  this  proud  reluctance  to  be 
fed. 

To  join  your  poor  and  eat  the  parish- 
bread  ? 

But  yet  I  linger,  loath  with  him  to  feed 

Wlio  gains  his  plenty  by  the  sons  of  need : 

He  who,  by  contract,  all  your  paupers 
took. 

And  gauges  stomachs  with  an  anxious 
look : 

On  some  old  master  I  could  well  depend  ; 

See  him  with  joy  and  thank  him  as  a 
friend ; 

But  ill  on  him  who  doles  the  day's  supply, 

And   counts   our  chances  who  at  night 
may  die : 

Yet  help  me,   Heaven !  and  let  me  not 
complain 

Of  what  befalls  me,  but  the  fate  sustain." 
Such   were  his  thoughts,  and   so   re- 
signed he  gi'ew ; 

Daily  he  placed  the  workhouse  in  his  view  ! 

6 


But  came  not  there,  for  sudden  was  his 

fate. 
He  dropt  expiring  at  his  cottage-gate. 

1  feel  his  absence  in  the  hours  of  prayer. 
And  view  his  seat,  andsighforlsaacthert' ; 
I  see  no  more  those  white  locks  tliinly 

spread 
Round  the  bald  polish  of  that  honored 

head ; 
No  more  that  awful  glance  on    ])layfal 

wight 
Compelled  to  kneel  and  tremble  at  the 

sight, 
To  fold  his  fingers  all  in  dread  the  while. 
Till  Mister  Ashford  softened  to  a  smile  ; 
No  more  that  meek  and  suppliant  look 

in  prayer. 
Nor  the  pure  faith  (to  give  it  force)  are 

there :  .  .  .  . 
But  he  is  blest,  and  I  lament  no  more, 
A  wise  good  man  contented  to  be  poor. 


SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

[1763-1855.] 

A  WISH. 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear ; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  thi;  dew ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees. 
Where  first  our  marriage- vows  were  given. 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze. 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


ITALIAN  SONG. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale. 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there ; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 


82 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  sliMls  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange  groves  and  myrtle  bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
1  charm  the  fairy- looted  hours 
"With  my  lovetl  lute's  romantic  sound; 
Of  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  <lay, 
Tlie  ballet  ilanced  in  twilight  glade, 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade : 
These  simple  joys  that  never  fail 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

[1759-1796.] 

OF    A'    THE   AIRTS    THE   WIND    CAN 
BLAW. 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west ; 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best. 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  monie  a  hill  's  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  Uight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair ; 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

1  hear  her  charm  the  air; 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  tlower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green,  — 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


MARY  MORISON. 

0  Maky,  at  thy  window  be  ! 

It  is  the  wislied,  the  trysted  hour ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  ]ioor 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  sla^'e  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  1  tile  rich  reward  secure. 

The  lovely  JIary  Morison. 


Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 

The  dancegaed  through  the  lighted  ha'. 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"Ye  are  ua  Maiy  Morison." 

0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  j-ourwoods,  and  fair  your  t!owcrs. 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
Thei'e  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

0'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  1  lossom. 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  sliade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The;  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  ])arting  was  fu'  tender; 
An<l  ])ledging  aft  to  meet  again. 

We  tore  ourselves  asunder; 
But,  O,  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sue  early  ! 
Now  green  's  thesod,  and cauld'sthe clay, 

That  w-raps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

0  y)ale,  pale  now,  those  ro.sy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sjiarkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindl}'! 
And  moiddeiing  now  in  silent  dust 

That  lieart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  witliin  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  JSIary. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


83 


TO  MARY  IK  HEAVEN. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usherest  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
0  Mary  !  dear,  dei)arted  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hearst  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breSst  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget. 

Can  1  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past ; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ! 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening 
green ; 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined   amorous  round  the  raptured 
scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  pressed. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  sjjray. 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes. 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ; 
Time  but  the  impression  deeper  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary  !  dear,  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  gi-oans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 


A  VISION. 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower. 

Where  the  wa'-flower  scents  the  dewy 
air, 

W^here  the  howlet  mournsin  her  ivy  bower. 
And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care. 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still. 
The  stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky ; 

The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 
And  the  distant-echoing  glens  reply. 

The  stream,  adown  its  hazelly  path, 
Was  rushing  by  the  ruined  wa's, 


Hasting  to  join  the  sweeping  Nith, 
Whase  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa's. 

The  cauld  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hi.ssing,  eei'ie  din  ; 

Athort  the  lift  they  start  and  shift, 
Like  fortune's  favors,  tint  as  win. 

By  heedless  chance  I  turned  mine  eyes, 
And  by  the  moon-beam,  shook,  to  see 

A  stern  and  stalwart  ghnist  arise, 
Attired  as  minstrels  W(jnt  to  be. 

Had  I  a  statue  been  o'  stane, 

His  darin  look  had  daunted  nie : 

And  on  his  bonnet  graved  was  plain, 
The  sacred  posy  —  Libertie  ! 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flow, 
Might  roused  the  .slumbering  dead  to 
hear; 

But  0,  it  was  a  tale  of  woe, 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's  ear ! 

He  sang  wi'  joy  his  former  day, 

He  weeping  wailed  iiis  latter  times; 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, 
I  winna  ventur  't  in  my  rhymes. 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH. 

Is  there  a  wliim-inspired  fool, 
Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 
Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool, 

Let  him  draw  near, 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool. 
And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song. 
Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 
That  weekly  this  area  throng, 

O,  pass  not  by  ! 
But  witK  a  frater-feeling  strong. 

Here  lieave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  coursH  to  steer, 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career, 

Wild  as  the  wave; 
Here  pause,  and,  thro'  the  starting  tear, 

Survey  this  grave. 

This  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 


84 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 
And  Kofter  flame ; 

But  thoughtless  follie.s  laid  him  low, 

And  stained  his  name  ! 

Reader,  attend,  —  whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  fliglits  beyond  the  jiole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  ]mrsuit; 
Know  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


ELEGY    ON    CAPTAIN    MATTHEW 
HENDERSON. 

He  's  gane,  he  's  gane  !  he  's  frae  us  torn, 

The  ae  best  fellow  e'er  was  born  ! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature's  sel  shall  mourn 

By  wood  and  wild. 
Where,  haply.  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled. 

Ye  hills,  near  neel)ors  o'  the  .starns. 
That  ju'oudl}'  cock  your  cresting  cairns! 
Ye  clilfs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns 

Wlicre  echo  slumlicrs ! 
Come  join,  ye  Nature's  sturdiest  bairns, 

My  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens  ! 
Ye  haz'lly  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  burnies,  wiui|)lin  down  your  glens, 

Wi'  toddlin  din, 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  hasty  stens, 

Frae  lin  to  lin. 

Mourn,  little  harebells  o'er  the  lea; 
Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see; 
Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bow'rs; 
Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree. 

The  first  o'  ilow'rs. 

At  dawn,  when  every  grassy  blade 

Droops  with  a  diamond  at  its  head. 

At  ev'n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed, 

r  tir  rustling  gale, 
Ye  maukins  whiddin  thro'  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  wail. 

Mourn,  ye  W(!e  songsters  o'  the  wood; 
Ye  grouse  that  era])  the  heather  bud; 
Ye  curlews  calling  thro'  a  clud ; 

Ye  whistling  ])lover; 
And  mourn,  j-e  whirring  paitrick  brood; 

He  's  gane  forever ! 


Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals; 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels; 
Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 

Circling  the  lake ; 
Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake. 

Mourn,  clam'ring  craiks  at  close  o'  day, 
'Mang  fields  o'  flow'ring  claver  gay  ; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Fiae  our  cauM  shore. 
Tell  thae  far  warlds,  wha  lies  in  claj-, 

Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  howlets,  frae  your  ivy  how'r. 
In  some  auld  tiee,  or  eldritch  tow'r. 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow'r, 

Sets  up  her  horn, 
Wail  thro'  the  dr<>ary  midnight  hour 

Till  waukrife  morn. 

0  river.s,  forests,  hills,  and  plains ! 
Oft  have  ye  heard  my  canty  .strains; 
But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 

But  tales  of  woe  ? 
And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 

Maun  ever  flow. 

Mourn,  Spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year ! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a  tear; 
Thou,  Sunnner,  while  each  corny  spear 

Shoots  up  its  head. 
Thy  gay,  green,  flow'ry  tresses  shear 

For  him  that 's  dead  ! 

Thou,  Autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hair. 
In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear! 
Thou,  AVinter,  Inirling  thro'  the  air 

The  roaring  blast, 
Wide  o'er  the  naked  a\  orkl  declai-e 

The  worth  we  've  lost ! 

JMourn  him,  thou  Sun,gi-eat  source  of  light ; 
Mourn,  Empress  of  the  silent  night !' 
And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnics  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn  ! 
For  through  your  oibshe  'sta'en  his  flight. 

Ne'er  to  return. 

0  Henderson  ;  the  man  !  the  biothcr! 
And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  foicvei' ! 
And  hast  thou  ciost  that  unknown  river, 

Life's  dreary  bound  ! 
Like  thee,  where  shall  I  find  anotlicr. 

The  world  around  >. 

Go  to  your  sculjitured  tombs,  ye  Great, 
In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state ! 


LADY  ANNE   BAKNAED. — WILLIAM   BLAKE. 


85 


But  by  thy  honest  turf  I  '11  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth  ! 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow's  fate 
E'er  lav  in  earth. 


LADY  ANNE  BARNAKD. 

[1705-1825.] 

AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

When  the  slieep  are  in  the  fauld,  and 

the  kye  come  hame, 
And  a'  the  weary  warld  to  sleep  are  gane ; 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae 

my  ee, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  wcel,  and  socht 

me  for  his  bride  ; 
But   saving  a   croun,  he  had  naething 

else  beside ; 
To  male  that  croun  a  pund,  my  Jamie 

gaed  to  sea ; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  they  were 

baitli  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and 

a  day. 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the 

cow  was  stown  awa : 
My  mither  she  fell  sick,  — my  Jamie  was 

at  sea, 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother 

couldna  sj)in ; 
I  toiled  day  and  nicht,  but  their  bread  I 

couldna  win ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and, 

wi'  tears  in  his  ee'. 
Said,  "Jeannie,  for  their  sakes,  will  ye 

na  marry  me?" 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  for  I  looked  for 

Jamie  back ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship 

it  was  a  wrack  ; 
The  ship  it  was  a  wrack — why  didna 

Jamie  dee  ? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  say,  Wae  's  me? 

My  father  urged  me  sair :  my  mither  didna 

speak  ; 
But  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart 

was  like  to  break ; 


They   gied  him    my  liand,  though    my 

heart  was  in  the  sea ; 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  was  gudtinan  to 

me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four. 
When,  mournfu'as  I  saton  thestaneatmy 

door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  coiililna 

think  it  he. 
Till  he  said,  "I  'm  come  home,  love,  to 

marry  thee." 

0,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  say  of  a' ! 
I  gie'd  him  but  ae  kiss,  and  bade  him 

gang  awa' : 
I  wish  I  were  dead !  but  1  'm  no  like  to 

dee ; 
And  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae  's  me  ? 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin  ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad 

be  a  sin  ; 
But  I  '11  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be. 
For  auld  Robin  Gray,  he  is  kind  to  me. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

[1757-1827.] 

THE    TIGER. 

TifiRU  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night ; 
Wliat  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  iire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thine  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat. 
What  dread  hand  ?  and  what  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

AVhen  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 


86 


SOXGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Did  lie  smile  liis  work  to  see  ? 

Did  He,  who  made  tlie  Lamb,  make  tliee  ? 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  biii'iiing  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  syumietry  ? 


TO   THE   MTJSES. 

WnKTIlEn  on  Ida's  shady  brow 
Or  in  the  chambei's  of  tlie  East, 

The  chambers  of  the  sun,  whieh  now 
From  ancient  melodies  have  ceased  ; 

Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair, 
Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth. 

Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air, 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth. 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove, 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

Wanilering  in  many  a  coral  grove. 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry, 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  lore 
Tliat  bards  of  old  engaged  in  yon  ! 

The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move. 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

[1762- 1831.] 

THE  GOWAN   GLITTERS  ON  THE 
SWARD. 

The  gowan  glitters  on  the  sward. 

The  lav'rock  's  in  tlie  sky, 
And  Collie  on  my  plaid  keeps  ward. 
And  time  is  passing  by. 
0,  no !  sa(l  and  slow. 

And  lengthened  on  the  ground  ; 
The  shadow  of  our  trysting  bush 
It  wears  so  slowly  round. 

My  sheep-bells  tinkle  frae  the  west, 

My  lumbs  are  bleating  near; 
But  still  the  sound  that  I  love  best. 
Alack  !   I  canna  hear. 
O,  no !  sad  and  slow. 

The  shadow  lingers  still ; 
And  like  a  lanely  gliaist  I  stand, 
And  croon  upon  the  hill. 


I  hear  below  the  water  roar, 
The  mill  \vi'  clacking  din. 
And  Lucky  scolding  frae  the  door, 
To  ca'  the  bairnies  in. 
0,  no  !  .sad  and  slow, 

Thes(!  are  nae  sounds  for  me; 
The  shadow  of  our  trysting  bu.sh 
It  creeps  sae  drearily. 

I  coft  yestreen,  frae  chapman  Tarn, 

A  snood  o'  bonnie  blue, 
And  promised,  when  our  trysting  cam'. 
To  tie  it  round  her  brow. 
0,  no  !  sad  and  .slow. 

The  mark  it  winna'  pass  ; 
The  shadow  o'  that  dreary  bush 
Is  tethered  on  the  grass. 

0  now  I  see  her  on  the  way ! 

She  's  ])ast  the  witch's  knowe  ; 
She  's  climbing  up  the  brownies  brae; 
Jly  heart  is  in  a  lowe, 
0,  no  !  't  is  not  so, 

'T  is  glamrie  I  hae  seen ; 
The  shadow  o'  that  hawthorn  bush 
Will  move  nae  mair  till  e'en. 

My  book  o'  grace  1  '11  try  to  read, 
Though  conned  \vi'  little  skill ; 
When  Collie  barks  I  '11  raise  my  head. 
And  find  her  on  the  hill. 
0,  no  !  sad  and  .slow. 

The  time  will  ne'er  be  gane  ; 
The  shadow  o'  our  trysting  bush 
Is  li.xed  like  ony  stane. 


* 

LADY  CAROLINE  NAIRN. 

[1766-1845.] 

THE  LAND  O'  THE  LEAL. 

I  'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean, 
Like  snaw  in  a  thaw,  Jean, 
I  'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
There  's  nae  sot'I'ow  there,  Jean, 
There 's  neither  canld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  ever  fair 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

You  've  been  leal  and  true,  Jean, 
Your  task  is  endecl  noo,  Jean, 
And  I  '11  welcome  you 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


ROBEET   BLOOMFIELD. 


87 


Then  dry  that  tearfu'  ee,  Jean ; 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean ; 
And  angels  wait  on  nie 
To  the  Land  o'  the  Leah 

Our  bonnie  bairn  's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean, 
And  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal ! 
But  sorrow 's  self  wears  past,  Jean, 
And  joy  's  a  coniin'  fast,  Jean, 
The  joy  that 's  aye  to  last. 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

A'  our  friends  are  gane,  Jean ; 
We  've  lang  been  left  alane,  Jean  ; 
But  we  '11  a'  meet  again 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean  ! 
This  world's  care  is  vain,  Jean ! 
We  '11  meet,  and  aye  be  fain 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

[1766- 1S23.] 

THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN. 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breatlie  that  cooler 

air. 
And  take  possession  of  my  father's  chair ! 
Beneath  my  elbow,  on  the  solid  frame. 
Appeared  the  rough  initials  of  my  name, 
Cut  forty  years  before !     The  same  old 

clock 
Struck  the  same  bell,  and  gave  my  heart 

a  shock 
I   never    can    forget.      A    short    breeze 

sprung, 
And  while  a  sigh  was  trembling  on  my 

tongue. 
Caught  the  old  dangling  almanacs   be- 
hind, 
And  up  they  flew  like  banners  in  the 

wind ; 
Then  gently,  singly,  down,  down,  down 

they  went, 
And  told  of  twenty  years  that  I  had  spent 
Far  from  my  native  land.     That  instant 

came 
A  robin  on  the   threshold;  though   so 

tame, 


At    first   he   looked  distrustful,   almost 

shy, 
And  cast  on  me  his  coal-black  steadfast 

eye, 
And  seemed  to  say,  —  past  friendship  to 

renew,  — 
"Ah  ha!  old  worn-out  soldier,  is  it  you?" 
While  thus  I  mused,  still  gazing,  gazing 

still, 
On  beds  of  moss  spread  on  the  window- 
sill, 
I  deemed  no  moss  my  eyes  had  ever  seen 
Had  been  so  lovely,  brilliant,  fresh,  and 

green. 
And  guessed  some  infant  hand  had  placed 

it  there, 
And  prized  its  hue,  so  exquisite,  so  rare. 
Feelings  on  feelings  mingling,  doubling 

rose ; 
My  heart  felt  everything  but  calm  repose  ; 
I  could  not  reckon  minutes,  hours,  nor 

years, 
But  rose  at  once,  andbursted  into  tears ; 
Then,  like   a   fool,   confused,  sat  down 

again, 
And  thought  upon  the  past  with  shame 

and  ]>ain  ; 
I  raved  at  war  and  all  its  horrid  cost, 
And  glory's  quagmire,  where  the  brave 

are  lost. ' 
On   carnage,    fire,   and  plunder   long  I 

mused, 
And  cursed  the  murdering  weapons  I  had 

used. 
Two  shadows  then  I  saw,  two  voi(>es 

heard. 
One  bespoke  age,  and  one  a  child's  ap- 
peared. 
In  stepped  my  father   with  convulsive 

start. 
And  in  an  instant  clasped  me  to  his  iR^art. 
Close   by  him  stood  a  little   blue-eyed 

maid ; 
And  stooping  to  the  child,  the  old  man 

said, 
"  Come   hither,    Nancy,    kiss   me   once 

again  ; 
This  is  your  uncle  Charles,  come  home 

from  S])ain." 
The   child    approached,    and   with   her 

fingers  light 
Stroked  my  old  eyes,  almost  deprived  of 

sight. 
But  why  thus  spin  my  tale,  — thus  tedious 

be? 
Happy  old  soldier  !  what 's  the  world  to 

me? 


88 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


JAXE  ELLIOTT. 


[17S1-1849.] 

LAMENT  FOR  FLODDEN. 

I  'VE  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-inilk- 
ing, 
Lasses  a'  lilting  befcire  dawn  o'  day ; 
But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green 
loaning — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede 
away. 

At  blights,  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe 
lads  are  scorning. 
Lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie  and  wae  ; 
Kae  daffin',  nae  gabbin",  but  sighing  and 
sabbing. 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  legliu  and  hies  her 
away. 

In  har'st,  at   the    shearing,  nae   youths 
now  are  jeering, 
Bandsters  are  lyart,  and  rankled,  and 
gray ; 
At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae 
fleeching  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede 
away. 

At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  younkers 
are  roaming 
'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle  to 

But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her 
dearie  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  weded 
awaj'. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads 
to  the  Border  ! 
The    English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan 
the  day ; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought 
aye  the  foremost. 
The  prime  of  our  land,  are  cauld  in 
the  cla,y. 

"We  '11  hoar  nae  mair  lilting  at  the  ewe- 
milking; 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and 
wae ; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loan- 
ing— 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  arc  a'  wede 
away. 


ROBERT  TAMAHILL. 

[1774- 1810.] 

THE  MIDGES   DANCE  ABOON  THE 
BURN. 

TiiK  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn ; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa' ; 
The  paitricks  down  the  rushy  holm 

Set  up  their  e'ening  ca'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's  sang 

Eings  through  the  briery  shaw, 
While  Hitting  gay  the  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 

Beneath  the  golden  gloamin'  sky 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay ; 
The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains, 

To  charm  the  ling' ring  day ; 
While  weary  yaldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn, 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell ; 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  gidily  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry. 
The  simple  joys  that  Nature  yields 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 


THE  BRAES  O'  BALQUHITHER. 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go. 

To  the  braes  o'  Balquhither, 
Where  the  blae-berries  grow 

'Mang  the  bonnie  Highland  heather; 
Where  the  deer  and  the  I'oe, 

]>iglitly  bounding  together, 
S))ort  the  lang  summer  day 

On  the  braes  o'  Bahpihither. 

I  will  twine  thee  a  bower 

By  the  dear  siller  fountain. 
And  1  '11  cover  it  o'er 

Wi'  the  flowers  of  the  mountain; 
I  will  range  through  the  wilds. 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  drearie, 
And  return  wi'  the  spoils 

To  the  bower  0'  my  dearie. 

When  the  rude  wintry  win' 
Idly  raves  rouud  our  dwelling, 


WILLIAM   R.    SPENCER.  —  JOSEPH   BLA^XO    WHITE. 


89 


And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night  breeze  is  swelling, 
So  merrily  we  '11  sing, 

As  the  storm  rattles  o'er  us. 
Till  the  dear  shieling  ring 

Wi'  the  light  lilting  chorus. 

Kow  the  summer  's  in  prime 

Wi'  the  flowers  richly  blooming, 
And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 

A'  the  moorlands  perfuming; 
To  our  dear  native  scenes 

Let  us  journey  together. 
Where  glad  innocence  reigns 

'Mang  the  braes  o'  Balquhither. 


WILLIAM  R.  SPENCEE. 

[1770 -1834.] 

TO  THE  LADY  ANNE  HAMILTON. 

Too  late  I  stayed,  forgive  the  crime. 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  ; 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 

That  only  treads  on  flowers ! 

What  ej'e  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  his  glass. 
When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks 

That  dazzle  as  thej^  pass ! 

Ah  !  who  to  sober  measurement 
Time's  happy  swiftness  brings. 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  to  its  wings  ? 


JAMES  GLASSFORD. 

[1772-     .] 

THE  DEAD  WHO  HAVE  DIED  IN  THE 
LORD. 

Go,  call  for  the  mourners,  and  raise  the 

lament, 
Let  the  tresses  be  torn,  and  the  garments 

be  rent ; 
But  weep  not  for  him  who  is  gone  to 

his  rest. 
Nor  mourn  for  the  ransomed,  nor  wail 

for  the  blest. 


The  sun  is  not  set,  but  is  risen  on  high, 

Nor  long  in  corruption  his  body  shall  lie  ; 

Then  let  not  the  tide  of  thy  griefs  over- 
flow. 

Nor  the  music  of  heaven  be  discord  below ; 

Rather  loud  be  the  song,  and  triumphant 
the  chord. 

Let  us  joy  for  the  dead  who  have  died  in 
the  Lord. 

Go,  call  for  the  mourners,  and  raise  the 

lament, 
Let  the  tresses  be  torn,  and  the  garments 

be  rent ; 
But  give  to  the  living  thy  passion  of  tears. 
Who  walk  in  this  valley  of  sadness  and 

fears ; 
Who  are  pressed  by  the  combat,  in  dark- 
ness are  lost. 
By  the  tempest  are  beat,  on  the  billows 

are  tossed : 
0,  weep  not  for  those  who  sliall  sorrow 

no  more. 
Whose  warfare  is  ended,  whose  trial  is 

o'er ; 
Let  the  song  be  exalted,  triumphant  the 

chord. 
And  rejoice  for  the  dead  who  have  died 

in  the  Lord. 


JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE. 

[1775-1841.] 

NIGHT   AND  DEATH. 

Mysterioits  night !  when  our  first  par- 
ent knew 
Thee  from  report  Divine,  and  heard  thy 

name. 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame. 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue? 
Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew. 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting 

flame, 
Hesperu.s,  with  the  host  of  heaven,  came. 
And  lo  !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness 
lay  concealed 
Within   thy  beam.s,    0   sun !    or  who 
could  find, 
^V^lilst   fly,  and   leaf,  and  insect  stood 
revealed. 
That   to   such    countless    orbs    thou 
mad'st  us  blind? 


90 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Why  do  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anx- 
ious strife? 

If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not 
life  ? 


JOHN  LEYDEN. 

[1775-1811.] 

ODE  TO  AN  INDIAN  GOLD  COIN. 

WRITTEN   IN   CHERICAL,    M.^LABAR. 

Sl^^ve  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine  ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  ? 
How  can  I  love  to  see  thee  shine 

So   briglit,  whom    I    have  bought  so 
dear? — 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear, 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arm  ; 

The  jaclial's  shriek  hursts  on  mine  ear 
"Whom  mirth  and  music  wont  to  charm. 

By  Cherical's  dark  wandering  streams, 
Whei'e  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild. 

Sweet  visions  haunt  mv  waking  dreams 
Of  Tcviot  loved  wliilc  still  a  child, 
Of  castled  rocks  stujtendous  piled 

By  Esk  or  Eden's  classic  wave. 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendship 
smiled, 

Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Fade,  dav-dreams   sweet,   from  mejnory 
fade!  — 

Theperi.shedblissof}'outh'sfir.st  prime, 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played. 

Revives  no  more  in  after  time. 

Far  fiom  my  sacred  natal  clime, 
I  haste  to  an  untimely  grave  ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soared  suli- 
lime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine  !  thy  yellow  light 

Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear. 
A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer ; 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a  teai-. 
That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine  : 

Her   fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a 
fear ! 
I  cannot  hear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 
]  lift  a  heart  that  loved  me  true ! 


I  crossed  the  tedious  ocean -wave. 
To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 
The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 

Chill  on  my  withered  heart  :  the  grave 
Daik  and  untimely  met  my  view, — 

And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave ! 

Ha!  comest.thou  now  so  late  to  mock 

A  wanderer's  banished  heart  forlorn, 
Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  sliot'k 

Of  sun-rays  tipt  witli  death  has  borne? 

From  love,  from  friendship,  country, 
torn. 
To  memory's  fond  regrets  the  prey, 

Vile  slave,  thy  j^ellow  dross  I  scorn ! 
Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay  ! 


SIK  HUMPHRY  DAVY. 

[1778-1829.] 

WRITTEN    AFTER    RECOVERY    FROM 
A  DANGEROUS   ILLNESS. 

Lo !  o'er  the  earth  the  kindling  sj'irits 
]iour 
The  Hames  of  life  that  bounteous  na- 
ture gives; 
The  limjnd  dew  becomes  the  rosy  flower. 
The  insensate  dust  awakes,  and  moves, 
and  lives. 

All    .speaks   of  change :    the   renovated 
forms 
Of  long-forgotten  things  arise  again  ; 
The  light  of  suns,  the  breath  of  angry 
storms. 
The  everla.sting  motions  of  tlie  main,  — 

These    are  but  'engines  of  the   Eternal 
will. 
The    One  Intelligence,   who.se    potent 
sway 
lias  ever  acted,  and  is  acting  still, 
Whilst  stars,  and  worlds,  and  systems 
all  obey; 

Without  whose  power,  the  whole  of  mor- 
tal tilings 
Were   dull,    inert,   an   unharmonious 
band. 
Silent  as  are  the  harp's  untuned  strings 
Without   the    touches   of    the   poet's 
hand. 


GEORGE  CROLY. 


91 


A  sacred  spark  created  by  His  breath, 
The  immortal  mind  of  man  His  image 
bears ; 
A  spirit  living  'midst  the  forms  of  death, 
Oppressed  but  not  subdued  by  mortal 
cares ; 

A  germ,  preparing  in  the  winter's  frost 
To  rise,  and  bud,  and  blossom  in  the 
spring ; 
An  unfledged  eagle  by  the  tempest  tossed. 
Unconscious  of  his  future  strength  of 
wing ; 

The  child  of  trial,  to  mortality 

And  all  its  changeful  influences  given  ; 
On  the  green  earth  decreed  to  move  and 
die, 
And  yet  by  such  a  fate  prepared  for 
heaven. 

Soon  as  it  breathes,  to  feel  the  mother's 
form 
Of  orbed  beauty  through  its   organs 
thrill. 
To  press  the  limbs  of  life  with  rapture 
warm, 
And  drink  instinctive  of  a  living  rill ; 

To  view  the  skies  with  morning  radiance 
bright, 
Majestic  mingling  with  the  ocean  blue. 
Or  bounded  by  green  hills,  or  mountains 
white. 
Or  peopled  plains  of  rich  and  varied 
hue; 

The  nobler  charms  astonished  to  behold. 
Of  living  loveliness, — to  see  it  move. 

Cast   in   expression's    rich    and   varied 
mould, 
Awakeningsympathy,  compelling  love; 

The  heavenly  balm  of  mutual  hope  to 
taste. 
Soother    of   life,    affliction's   bliss    to 
share ; 
Sweet  as  the  stream  amidst  the  desert 
waste, 
As  the  first  blush  of  arctic  daylight 
fair ; 

To  mingle  with  its  kindred,  to  descry 
The  path  of  power ;  in  public  life  to 
shine ; 

To  gain  the  voice  of  popularity. 
The  idol  of  to-day,  the  man  divine ; 


To  govern  others  by  an  influence  strong 
As   that  high  law  which  moves  the 
murmuring  main, 
Raising  and  carrying  all  its  waves  along, 
Beneath  the  full-orbed  moon's  merid- 
ian reign ; 

To  scan  how  transient  is  the  breath  of 
praise, 
A  winter's  zephyr  trembling   on   the 
snow. 
Chilled  as  it  moves ;  or,  as  the  northern 
rays. 
First  fading  in  the  centre,  whence  they 
flow. 

To  live  in  forests  mingled  with  the  whole 
Of  natural   forms,  whose  generations 
rise. 
In  lovely  change,  in  happy  order  roll, 
On   land,  in   ocean,  in   the  glittering 
skies ; 

Their  harmony  to  trace ;  the  Eternal  cause 
To  know  in  love,  in  reverence  to  adore  ; 

To  bond  beneath  the  inevitable  laws. 
Sinking  in  death,  its  human  strength 
no  more ! 

Then,  as   awakening   from   a   dream  of 
pain, 
With  joy  its   mortal   feelings  to  re- 
sign ; 
Yet  all  its  living  essence  to  retain. 
The  undying  energy  of  strength  divine  ! 

To  quit  the  burdens  of  its  earthly  days, 
To   give  to  nature  all  her  borrowed 
powers,  — 
Ethereal  fire  to  feed  the  solar  rays. 
Ethereal  dew  to  glad  the  earth  with 
showers. 


GEORGE  CEOLY. 

[1780 -i860.] 

CTJPID  GROWN  CAREFUL. 

Theke  was  once  a  gentle  time 
When  the  world  was  in  its  prime; 
And  every  day  was  holiday, 
And  every  month  was  lovely  May. 
Cupid  then  had  but  to  go 
With  his  purple  wings  and  bow ; 


02 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


And  ill  blossomed  vale  and  grove 
Every  shepherd  knelt  to  love. 

Tlien  a  rosy,  dinijilcd  cheek, 
And  a  blue  eye,  loud  and  meek ; 
And  a  ringlet-wreathen  brow, 
Like  liyaeinths  on  a  bed  of  snow : 
And  a  low  voice,  silver  sweet, 
From  a  lip  without  deceit; 
Only  those  the  hearts  could  move 
Of  the  simple  swains  to  love. 

But  that  time  is  gone  and  past, 
Can  the  summer  always  last  ? 
And  the  swains  are  wiser  grown. 
And  the  heart  is  turned  to  stone, 
And  the  maiden's  rose  may  wither ; 
Cupid  's  fled,  no  man  knows  whither. 
Lilt  another  ('ui)id  's  come, 
AVitli  a  brow  of  care  and  gloom: 
Fixed  ui)on  the  earthly  mould. 
Thinking  of  the  sullen  gold  ; 
In  his  hand  the  bow  no  more. 
At  his  back  the  household  store, 
That  the  bridal  gold  must  buy : 
Useless  now  the  smile  and  sigh  : 
But  he  wears  the  ])iiiion  still. 
Flying  at  the  sight  of  ill. 

0,  for  the  old  true-love  time, 
When  the  world  was  in  its  prime  ! 


HENRY  KlIIKE  AVIIITE. 

[1783 -1806.] 

TO  THE  HERB  ROSEMARY. 

SwEET-srENTED  flower !  who  "rt  wont  to 
bloom 
On  .Tanuary's  front  severe, 
And  o"er  the  wintry  desert  drear 

To  waft  thy  waste  perfume  ! 
Come,  thou  shnlt  form  my  nosegay  now, 
And  I  will  bind  thee  rouiul  my  brow; 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
I  'U  weave  a  melancholy  song: 
And  .sweet  the  strain  shall  be  and  long. 

The  melody  nf  death. 

Corne,  funeral  flower  !  who  lov'st  to  dwell 
With  the  pale  coryise  in  lonely  tomb. 
And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 
A  sweet  decaying  smell. 


Come,    press   my   lips,    and   lie   with 

me 
Beneath  the  lowly  alder-tree. 

And  we  will  sleej)  a  pleasant  sleep, 
And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude, 
To  break  the  marble  solitude 

So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 

And  hark !  the  wind-god,  as  he  flies, 
Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees. 
And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze, 

Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet   flower !    that    requiem   wild   is 

mine. 
It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine. 
The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead ; 
My  grave  .shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot. 
Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 

A  dying  fiagrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my 
ashes  shed. 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

Mii.D   offspring   of  a   dark   and   sullen 
sire ! 

Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 
Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 
And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,  when  young  Spring  first  questioned 

Winter's  sway. 
And  dared  th(!  sturdy  blusterer  to   the 
flght. 
Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 
To  mark  his  victory. 

In   this  low  vale,   the   promise   of  the 

year, 
Serene,  thou  ojienest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone. 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So   virtue   blooms,  brought  forth  amid 

the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity;  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  .she  rears  her  head. 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 


While  every  bleacliing  breeze  that  on  her 

blows 
Chastens  her  .spotless  purity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


HERBERT    KNOWLES. 


93 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train. 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

Hark !  hark  !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem  : 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The   storm  was  loud,  the  night  was 
dark. 
The  ocean  yawned,  and  rudely  blowed 
The  wind  that  tossed  my  foundering 
bark. 


Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 
Death-struck,   I    ceased    the   tide 
stem ; 

"When  suddenly  a  star  arose,  — 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


to 


It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 
It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And  through  the   storm   and 
thrall. 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 


dangers' 


Kow  safely  moored,  my  perils  o'er, 
I  '11  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

Forever  and  forevermore 

The  Star !— the  Star  of  Bethlehem ! 


HEEBERT   OOWLES. 

[1798 -1827.] 

LINES     WRITTEN    IN    RICHMOND 
CHURCHYARD,  YORKSHIRE. 

"  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here ;  if  thou  wilt, 
let  us  make  here  three  tabernacles ;  one  for 
thee,  and  one  for  Moses,  and  one  for  Elias."  — 
Matt.  xviL  4. 


Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here ; 
If  thou  wilt,   let   us   build  —  but 
whom  ? 
Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear, 


for 


But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass 

the  gloom. 
The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of 

the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?     0,  no  ! 
AflVighted,  he  shrinketh  away  ; 

For,   see !    they   would   pin   him    be- 
low. 
In  a  small  narrow  cave,"  and,  begirt  with 

cold  clay. 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a 
prey. 

To  Beauty?  ah,  no!  —  she  forgets 
The  charms  which  she  wielded  before — 
Nor  knows   the   foul   worm   that  he 
frets 
The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could 

adore. 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint 
which  it  wore. 

Shall    we    build    to    the    purple    of 
Pride  — 
The  trappings  which  dizen  the  proud? 

Alas  !  they  are  all  laid  aside ; 
And  here  's  neither  dress  nor  adornment 

allowed. 
But  the  long  winding-sheet  and  the  fringe 
of  the  shroud. 

To  Kiches  ?  alas  !  't  is  in  vain  ; 
Who  hid,  in  their  turn  have  been  hid  : 
The  treasures  are  squandered  again  ; 
And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  for- 
bid. 
But  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark 
coffin-lid. 

To    the   pleasures   which   Mirth   can 
afford,  — 
The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer  ? 

Ah !  here  is  a  plentiful  board  ! 
But  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  piti- 
ful cheei-, 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveller 
here. 

Shall    we     build    to    Affection    and 
Love  ? 
Ah,  no  !  they  have  withered  and  died, 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above ; 
Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side 

by  side. 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have 
replied. 


94 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTUEIES. 


Unto    Sorrow  ?  —  The    dead     cannot 
grieve ; 
Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  oar, 
Which    compassion    itself    could   re- 
lieve ! 
Ah  !  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  hope,  love, 

nor  tear,  — 
Peace,  peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only 
one  here ! 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  raonarchs  must 
bow? 
Ah,  no  !  for  his  empire  is  known, 
And  here  there  are  trophies  enow ! 


Beneath — the  cold  dead,  and  around  — 

the  dark  stone. 
Are  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may 

disown  ! 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will 

build, 

And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  torise ; 

The  second  to  Faith,  which  insures  it 

fulfilled ; 

And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great 

sacrifice. 
Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  he 
rose  to  the  skies. 


FROM  WORDSWORTH  TO  LONGFELLOW. 


From  Wordsworth  to  Longfellow. 


-oojj^oc- 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 
[1770- 1850.] 

INTIMATIONS   OF   IMMORTALITY 

FROM  Recollections  of  Eaely  Childhood. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove, 

and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  eveiy  common  sight, 
To  nje  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ;  — 
Tuin  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can 
see  no  more. 


The  rainbow  comes  and  goes. 
And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 
The  moon  dotli  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are 
bare ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorioiis  birth  : 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  fronj 
the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous 
song. 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound. 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of 

grief; 
A  timely  utterance  gave   that   thought 
relief. 
And  I  again  am  strong. 


The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from 

the  steep,  — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season 

wrong : 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountaiirs 

throng. 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of 
sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 
I.,aiid  and  sea 
Give  themselvfs  u]i  to  jollity. 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keej)  holiday;  — 
Thou  child  of  joy. 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts, 
thou  happy  shepherd  boy  ! 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the 
call 
Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh    with   you   in   your 
jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal. 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  1  feel —  I  feel 
it  all. 

0  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning. 

This  sweet  May  morning. 
And  the  children  are  culling. 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 
Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines 
warm. 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's 
arm :  — 

1  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 

• —  P>ut  theie  's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 
A   single    field    which    1    have    looked 

upon, — 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is 

gone; 


98 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Tlie  pansy  at  my  feet 
Dotli  tile  same  tale  repeat. 

Whither  is  Hed  the  visionary  j^leani? 

"Where   is   it    now,   the    glory   and    the 
dream  ? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  foiget- 

tiiig  : 
The  soul  that  ii.ses  with   us,  our  life's 
star. 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  Cometh  from  afar; 
Kot  in  entire  foigetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  i)risi)n-house  begiu  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy  ; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it 
flows,  — 
He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 
The  youth    who  ilaily  farther  from  the 
east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  sj>l('ndid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At    length    the    man    perceives    it    die 

away, 
And    fade   into   the    light   of    common 
day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  jileasures  of  her 

own ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural 

kind, 
And  even  with  .something  of  a  mother's 
mind. 
And  no  unworthy  aim. 
The  homely  nurse  doth  all  .she  can 
To  make  her  fo.ster-chihl,  her  imnate  man, 

Foiget  the  gloiies  he  hath  known, 
Andthat  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  child   among  his   new-born 

blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pygmy  size  ! 
See  where  mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he 

lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  ki.sses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his   father's 

eyes  I 
See,  at  his  feet,  .some  little  ])lan  or  chart. 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human 

life. 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly  learned 

art,— 


A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral,  — 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  tiiis  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  tit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  aiul  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  liumorous 

stage 
With  all  tlie  jH'rsons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
Hiat  Life  V)rings  with  her  in  her  equipai;e  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblancedoth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immi'nsity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage  ;  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal 

deep, 
Haunted  tbrever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 
Jlighty  luophet !     Seer  blest ! 
On  wiiom  those  truths  do  rest 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darknesslost,  thcMlarknessof  thegrave  ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  .slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by: 
Tiiou  littlechild,  yetglorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom,  on  thy  being's 

height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou 

provoke 
The  years  to  brins  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus    blindly   with    thy    blessedness   at 

strife  ? 
Full  .soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly 

freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  wein-jit 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live ; 
That  Nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth 

breed 
Perpetual  l)enedietion  :  not  indeed 
For  that    which    is   most  worthy  to  be 

ble.st ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-tledged  hope  still  Jluttering  in 
his  breast :  — 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


99 


Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 
Bhink  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  ahout  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal 

nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised : 
But  lor  those  hrst  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  lie  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  tli(;  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
iVre  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing ; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and   have  power 
to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  :  truths  that  wake. 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  en- 
deavor, 

Nor  man  nor  boy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  children  sport  u]ion  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evei- 
more. 

Then,  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous 
song ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pijie  and  ye  that  play. 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 
What  though  the  radiance   which   was 

once  so  bright 
Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight ; 

Though  nothingcanbringback  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the 
flower,  — 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 
In  the  ]U'imal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
Inthefaiththatlooks  through  death, 
In    years    that    bring    the    philosophic 
mind. 


And  0  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and 

groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  1  feel  yourmight ; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight. 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  s\\  ay. 
1    love    the    brooks    which    down    their 

channels  fret. 
Even  more  than  wdien  I  trijiped  lightly 

as  they ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-boin  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  i-ound  the  setting 

sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  num's  mor- 
tality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms 

are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we 

live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys  and 

fears. 
To  m(!  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can 

give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 

tears. 


THE  DAFFODILS. 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills. 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  AVay, 
They  sti'etched  in  never-ending  line 
.Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company  ! 

I  gazed — and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

Wliat  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought ; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  : 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills  ; 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


100 


SONGS  OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

0  BLITHK  new-comer!  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee,  and  rcjoire  : 

0  euckoo  !  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice? 

While  I  am  lyinj;  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  1  hear; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thric(?  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listened  to  ;  that  cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways. 
In  bush  and  tree  and  sky. 

To  seek  fhee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green  ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen  I 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 
Can  lie  upon  the  jdain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  bird  I  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  ajjpears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  fairy  place 
That  is  fit  home  for  thee ! 


A  MEMORY. 

Thkef,  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 
Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  caith  was  never  sown  : 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Hoth  law  and  impulse ;  an(i  \N'ith  me 

Tht;  girl,  in  rock  an<I  ]ilain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  fi'cl  an  overscfing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 


"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn, 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  spiings; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  liers  the  silence  and  the  calm. 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The   floating  clouds  their  state   shall 

lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
E'en  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

* 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  ])lace, 
Where    rivulets    dance    their    wayward 

round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  soiind 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  I'ear  her  form  to  stateh'  height. 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  1  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Naturespake.  The  work  wasdone — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  ijuiet  scene ; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been. 

And  nevermore  will  be. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
"When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  appurition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  tlie  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancnng  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  jiearer  view, 

A  spirit,  y<'t  a  woman  too! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liKeity  : 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


lOi 


A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  iood, 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,   blame,  love,   kisses,   tears,   and 
smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight, strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


YARROW  UNVISITED. 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 

The  mazy  Forth  unravelled; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 

And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 

Then  said  my  "winsome  Marrow," 
"  Whate'er  betide,  we  '11  turn  aside, 

And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow." 

"Let  Yarroiv  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling. 
Go  back  to  Yarrow,  't  is  their  own. 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling ! 
On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed. 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  ! 
But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

"There  's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 
And    Dry  burgh,    where    with    chiming 
Tweed 

The  lintwhitessing  in  chorus; 
There 's  pleasant  Teviotdale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow : 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

"  What 's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare. 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 
There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 

As  worthy  of  your  wondei'." 
—  Strange  words'  they  seemed  of  slight 
and  scorn  ; 

My  true-love  sighed  for  sorrow. 
And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 


"0,     green,"    said    I,    "an;    Yarrow's 
holms. 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  ! 
Fair  hangs  the  api>le  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path  and  open  stiath 

We  '11  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 

Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

"Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  lUun  Jliil  meadow  ; 

The  swan  on  still  Saint  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow! 

We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-niorrow  ; 

Enough  if  in  our  heaits  we  know- 
There  's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

"  Be  Yairow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own  ; 

Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it? 
The  treasiired  dreams  of  times  long  ])ast, 

We  '11  keej)  them,  winsome  Mariow  ! 
For  when  we  'I'e  there,  althongh  't  is  fair, 

'T  will  be  another  Yarrow  ! 

"  If  care  with  freezing  years  should  come, 

And  wandering  seem  but  folly,  — 
Should  we  be  loath  to  stir  from  home. 

And  yet  be  melancholy  ; 
Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'T  will  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow- 
That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show. 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  !" 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  PEELE  CASTLE  IN 
A  STORM. 

Painted  by  Sir  George  Beaumont. 

I  WAS  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged 

pile ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dw-elt  in  sight  of 

thee : 
I  saw  thee  every  day  ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  tea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  aii' ! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  '■ 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thj^  image  still  was 

there ; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 


102 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CEXTURIES. 


How  perfect  was  the  calm !     It  seemed 

no  sleep, 
No  mood,  wliich  season  takes  away,  or 

brings : 
I    could    have  fancied  that  the  mighty 

Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah  !  then  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's 

hand 
To  express  what  then  I  saw ;   and  add 

the  gleam. 
The  liglit  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
Tlie  consecration,  andtiie  poet's  dream,  — 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary 

pile, 
-Amid  a  world  how  dilTerent  from  this  ! 
IJesiiie  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile  ; 
On  ti-ancjuil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Klysiau  quiet,  without  toil  or  .strife; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze  ; 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart. 
Such  picture  would  1  at  that  time  have 

made ; 
And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 
A   steadfast   peace   that   might   not    be 

betrayetl. 

So  once  it  would  have  been,  — 't  is  so  no 

more ; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control  : 
A   power  is  gone,   which    nothing  can 

restore  ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  .smilim;  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been: 
The    feeling   of  my   loss  will    ne'er   be 

old ; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind 

serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend  I  who  would 
have  i)een  the  friend. 

If  he  had  lived,  of  him  whom  I  de])lore. 

This  work  of  thine  1  blame  not,  but  com- 
mend ; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

O,  't  is  a  pa.ssionate  work  !  —  yet  wise  and 

w.-ll, 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here; 


That  hulk  which  labors  in   the  deadly 

swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear ! 

And  this  huge  castle,  standing  here  sub- 
lime, 

I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it 
braves  — 

Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armor  of  old 
time  — 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  tramp- 
ling waves. 

Farewell,  farewell   the  heart  that   lives 

alone. 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the 

kind  ! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied;  for  't  is  surely  blind. 

V,ut  welcome  fortitude,  and  jiatient  cheer, 
And  fi'equent   sights  of  what  is  to   be 

borne ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before   me 

here :  — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mouru. 


ODE  TO  DTJTT. 

Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! 
0  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love. 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
AVTien  empty  terroi-s  overawe. 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  lui- 
manity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth. 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  I'cly 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Clad  hearts!  without  reproach  or  ])lot ; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 
May  joy  be  theirs  while  life  shall  last ! 
And  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach 
them  to  stand  fast ! 

Sereii(>  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nattire  he, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  blest  are  they  who  in  the  main 
This  faith,  even  now,  do  entertain : 


WILLIAM   WOKDSWORTH. 


lo; 


Live  iij  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 
Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to 
their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried. 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust. 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust ; 
Full  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Tliy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task  imposed,  from  day  to  day; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strict- 
ly, if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul. 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their 

name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  which  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  lawgiver !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  u])on  thy  face. 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong, 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  througli 
thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  power! 
I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
0,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise. 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 
And,  in  the  light  of  truth,  thy  bondman 
let  me  live ! 


TO   SLEEP. 

A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;   the   fall   of  rivers,   winds 

and  seas. 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and 

pure  sky;  — 

I  've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  still  I 

lie 
Sleepless ;    and   soon    the    small   bii-ds' 

melodies 


Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard 

trees. 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 

Even  thus  last  night,   and  two   nights 

more  I  lay. 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep !  by  any 

stealth : 
So  do  not  let  me  Mear  to-night  away : 
Without  thee  what  is  all  the  morning's 

wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and 

day. 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous 

health  ! 

THE  WORLD. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and 

soon. 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our 

powers : 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid 

boon ! 
This  sea   that  bares   her  bosom  to  the 

moon, 
The   winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all 

hours 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping 

flowers. 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of 

tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  I  I  'd  rather 

be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less 

forlorn. 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the 

sea, 
Or   hear   old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed 

horn. 


TO  THE  RIVER  DUDDON. 

I  THOroHT  of  thee,  my  partner  and  my 
guide. 
As  being  passed  away, — vain  sympa- 
thies ! 
For  backward,  Duddon  !  as  I  cast  my 
eyes, 
I  see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide: 
Still  glides  the  stream,  and  shall  foiever 
glide ; 
The  form  remains,  the  function  never 
dies ; 


104 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and 
the  wise. 
We   iiii'ii,  who   in    dur   inoin   of  voutli 

(Iclieil 
The  I'h'iin'iits,  innst  vanish  ;  — be  it  so  ! 
Enout:!!,  if  .sonictliinir  from  our  liands 

iiave  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future 
hour; 
And   if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb   we 

Througli  love,  through  liope,  andfaitli's 
transcendent  (low('r. 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

[1771- 1832.] 

YOUNG  LOCHINVAR. 

0,  YOUNU  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 

west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed 

was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapon 

had  none. 
He  rode   all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all 

alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in 

war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 

Lochinvar ! 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped 
not  for  stone. 

He  swam  the  Esk  Kiver  where  ford  thcTc 
was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Xetherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  thegallant  came 
late : 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in 
war. 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loch- 
invar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherl)y  Uall, 
'Mong    bridesmen,    and     kinsmen,   and 

brothers,  and  all  ! 
Then  spoke  tlie  liride's  father,  his  hand 

on  his  sword,  — 
For    the    poor   craven    bridegroom   .said 

never  a  word,  — 


' '  0,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in 

war, 
Or  to  dan(!e  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 

Lochinvar  ?" 

"I   long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit 

you  denied : 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like 

its  tide ! 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love 

of  mine. 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup 

of  wine ! 
There    be    maidens    in    Scotland   more 

lovely  by  far. 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 

Lochinvar!" 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight 

took  it  up. 
He  quaffed  otf  the  wine,  and  he  threw 

down  th(!  cup ! 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked 

up  to  sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in 

her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother 

could  bar,  — 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure  !"  .said  young 

Lochinvar. 

So   stately  his   form,  and  so  lovely  her 

face, 
That   never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did 

grace ! 
W^hil(!  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father 

did  fume. 
And  llie  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his 

bonnet  and  plume. 
And      the     bride-maidens     whispered, 

"'T  were  better  by  far 
To   hav(!  jnatehed  our  fair  cousin  with 

young  Lochinvar  I" 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in 

her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  liall  door,  and 

the  charger  stood  near, 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he 

swung, 
So   liglit    to   the   saddle    before   her  he 

sprung. 
"She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over  bank, 

bush,  and  scaur ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  foil  w!" 

quoth  young  Lochinvar. 


SIK    WALTER    SCOTT. 


105 


There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of 

the  Netlierby  clan  ; 
Fosters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  the}' 

rode  and  they  ran  ; 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Canno- 

bie  Lea, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did 

they  see ! 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless    in 

war. 
Have  ye  e'er  lieard  of  gallant  like  young 

Lochia var? 


A    SERENADE. 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh. 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trilled  all  day, 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour. 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear ; 
To  Beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above. 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky, 
And  liigh  and  low  the  influence  know,  — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 


SONG. 

"A  WEARY  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine  ! 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln-green,  — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

My  love ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, - 

The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turned  his  charger  as  he  spake, 

Upon  the  river  shore  ; 
He  gave  his  bridle-reins  a  shake. 

Said,  "Adieu  forevermore. 

My  love ! 
And  adieu  forevermore." 


LAY    OF    THE    IMPRISONED    HUNTS- 
MAN. 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood. 
My  idle  greyhound  loathes  his  food. 
My  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall. 
And  1  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
I  wish  I  were  as  I  have  been. 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forests  green. 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free, 
For  that's  the  life  is  meet  for  me. 

I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time 

From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime. 

Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl. 

Inch  after  inch,  along  the  wall. 

The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring, 

The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing ; 

These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be, 

Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 

No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise, 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes, 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forest  through. 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet. 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee,  — 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me ! 


THE  TROSACHS. 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
Rolled  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way ; 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire, 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire. 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below. 
Where  twined  the  path,  in  shadow  hid, 
Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid. 
Shooting  abru])tly  from  the  dell 
Its  thunder-splintered  pinnacle; 
Round  many  an  insulated  mass, 
The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass. 
Huge  as  the  tower  which  boulders  vain 
Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 
Their  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent. 
Formed  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 
Or  seemed  fantastically  set 
With  cupola  or  minaret, 
W  ild  crests  as  pagod  ever  decked, 
Or  mosque  of  Eastern  architect. 
Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare, 
Nor  lacked  they  many  a  banner  fair  ; 
For,  from  their  shivered  brows  displayed, 
Far  o'er  the  unfathomable  glade, 
All  twinkling  with  the  dew-drop  sheen, 


106 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  brier-rose  fell  in  streamers  "reen, 
And  creeping  shrubs  of  thousand  dyes, 
Waved  in  the  west-wind's  summer  sighs. 

Boon  nature  scattered,  free  and  wild, 
Each  plant  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child. 
Here  eglantine  embalmed  the  air, 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there; 
The  primrose  pale,  and  violet  flower. 
Found  in  each  clifl'  a  narrow  bower ; 
Foxglove  and  nightshade,  side  by  side, 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride, 
Grouped  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain, 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
With  boughs  that  (juaked  at  every  breath, 
Gray  bindi  and  aspen  wept  beneath ; 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock  ; 
And  higher  yet,  the  pine-tree  hung 
His  shattered  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 
Where  .seemed  the  clifl's  to  meet  on  high. 
His  boughs  athwart  the  narrowed  sky. 
H  ighest  of  all,  where  white  peaks  glanced. 
Where  glistening  streamers  waved  and 

danced, 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue ; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 
Onward,  amid  the  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow  inlet,  .still  and  deej), 
Att"ording  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim. 
As  served  the  wild-duck's  brood  to  swim ; 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  vetM'ing, 
I'ut  broader  when  again  a^ipearing. 
Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark-blue  mirror  trace ; 
Ajid  farther  as  the  hunter  strayed, 
Still  broader  sweep  its  channels  made. 
The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood. 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood, 
But,  wave-encircled,  seemed  to  float, 
Like  castle  girdled  with  its  moat ; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still. 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill. 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in  an  inland  sea. 

And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen. 

No  pathway  meets  the  wanclerer's  ken. 

Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 

A  far-projecting  precij)ice. 

The  l)room's  tougli  roots  his  ladiler  made. 

The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid  ; 

And  thus  an  airy  point  ht>  won, 

Where,  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun, 

One  burnished  sheet  of  liWng  gold, 


Loch-Katrine  lay  beneath  him  rolled; 

In  all  her  lengtli  far  winding  lay, 

With  promontory,  creek,  and  bay. 

And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright, 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light ; 

And  mountain.-;,  that  like  giants  stand. 

To  sentinel  enchanted  laud. 

High  on  the  south,  huge  Ben-venue 

Down  to  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls,  and   mounds,  confusedly 

hurled, 
TIk;  fragments  of  an  earlier  world ; 
A  wildering  forest  feathered  o'er 
His  ruined  sides  and  summit  hoar. 
While  on  the  north,  fhrough  middle  air, 
Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 

From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 
The  stranger,  raptured  and  amazed. 
And  ' '  What  a  scene  were  here, "  he  cried, 
"For    princely    pomp    or    churchman's 

pride ! 
On  this  bold  brow,  a  lordly  tower ; 
In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  bower ; 
On  yonder  meadow,  far  away, 
The  turrets  of  a  cloister  gray ; 
How  blithely  might  the  bugle-horn 
Chide,  on  the  lake,  the  lingering  morn  ! 
How  sweet,  at  eve,  tlie  lover's  lute. 
Chime,  when   the  groves  are  still   and 

mute ! 
And  when  the  midnight  moon  should  lave 
Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave. 
How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 
The  holy  matins'  distant  hum. 
While  the  dee])  jieal's  commanding  tone 
Should  wake,  in  y(jnder  islet  lone, 
A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell. 
To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell,  — 
And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all. 
Should  each  bewildered  stranger  call 
To  friendly  feast  and  lighted  hall." 


CORONACH. 

Hf,  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest. 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font  reapjiearing 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow; 
But  to  us  conu's  no  cheering. 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT. 


107 


But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 
Wails  manhood  in  glory. 

Th(^  autumn  winds,  I'ushiug, 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest ; 

But  oui-  Hower  was  in  flushing, 
When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  oorrei, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray. 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever. 


HYMN  OF  THE  HEBREW  MAID. 

When  Lsrael,  of  the  Lord  beloved. 

Out  Irom  tlie  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  father's  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  tlame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands, 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 
By  night,  Aralaia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hynm  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen  ; 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays. 
With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  be- 
tween. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze,  — 
.  Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  thy  ways, 
And  thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen. 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous 
day, 
Be  thoughts  of  thee  a  cloudy  screen, 

To  temyier  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  0,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frecjuent  night, 
Be  thou,  long-suffei-ing,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams,  — 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams. 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 
But  thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goats. 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  ])rize,  ■ — • 
A  contrite  heart,  and  humble  thoughts. 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 


CHRISTMAS-TIME. 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  —  the  wind  is  chill ; 
Bat  let  it  whistle  as  it  will. 
We  '11  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 
EacdT  age  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer  : 
Even  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 
At  lol  moie  dee]i  the  mead  did  drain  ; 
High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  tlrew, 
And  feasted  all  his  jiirate  ei'ew ; 
Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall. 
Where    shields    and    a.xes    decked   the 

wall. 
They  gorged  upon  the  half-dressed  steer; 
Caroused  in  seas  of  sable  beer ; 
While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  were  thrown 
The  half-gnawed  rib  and  marrow-bone. 
Or  listened  all,  in  giim  delight. 
While  scalds  j'elled  out  the  joys  of  fight. 
Then  forth  in  frenzy  would  they  hie. 
While  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly; 
And,  dancing  round  the  blazing  ]iile. 
They   make    such    barbarous   mirth  the 

while. 
As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 
The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  itscoursehad  rolled, 
And  brought  blitheChristmas  back  again, 
With  all  his  hos])itable  train. 
Domestic  and  leligious  rite 
Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night : 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  .sung; 
That  only  night,  in  all  the  year. 
Saw  the  .stoled  priest  the  (dialice  rear. 
Tiie  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 
The  hall  was  dress/^d  with  holly  green  ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go, 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 
Then  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 
.And  Ceremony  doffed  his  piide. 
The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes. 
That  night  might  village  ];artner  choose; 
The  lord,  underogating,  share 
The  vulgar  game  of  "post  and  ]'air." 
All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight 
An<l  general  voice,  the  hapjiy  night 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 
Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied. 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide ; 


108 


SONGS   OF  THKEE    CENTURIES. 


The  liiige  hall-taWe's  oaken  fiice, 
StTublicd  till  it  shone  the  day  to  grace, 
Bore  then  ujton  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  pai-t  the  S(|uire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn, 
Hy  old  blue-eoated  serving-man  ; 
Tlieu  the  grim  boar's  head  irowned  on 

high, 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
"Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell 
How,  when,  and  where  the  monster  lell ; 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls. 
Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Cliristmas  pie; 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce, 
At  such  high-tide,  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in, 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  diu  ; 
If  uiimelodious  was  the  sons. 
It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mj'stery  ; 
Wlute  skirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  snnitted  cheeks  the  visors  made: 
But,  0,  what  maskers  richly  dight 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'T  was  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest 

ale ; 
'T  was  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 
A  Chiistmas gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the 

year. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

[1772- 1834.] 

GENEVIEVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  Hame. 

©.•"t  in  my  waking  dnams  do  I 
Live  o'l-r  again  that  hajijiy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Reside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve; 


And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
Mv  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 


She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 

ight ; 

y  lay, 


The  statue  of  the  armed  knight 
She  stood  and  listened  to  m 


Amid  the  linijei 


liLdit. 


Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  1  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story,  — 
An  ohl  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  Ids  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  ])ined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  th(;  ]ileading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  tol<l  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Kuiglit, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savag(>  den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade. 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  briglit ; 
And  tliat  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  lea[>ed  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death. 
The  Lady  of  the  Land ; 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


109 


And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  liis  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain; 
And  ever  strove  to  ex])iate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  hrain ; 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
"When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ; 

—  His  dying  words —  but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  tlie  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  ])ausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  nuisic  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hoj)es,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
fcjubdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  wept  with  j)ity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
1  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  —  she  stepped  aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept,  ■ — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye. 
She  Hed  to  me  and  wejit. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
■  The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  1  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE,   IN  THE 
VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning 

star 
In  his  steep  course  ?     So  long  he  seems 

to  pause 


On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc  ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveirou  at  thy  base 
liave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful 

Form ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air,  and  dark,  substantial, 

black. 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge  !  P)Ut  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal 

shrine. 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !  I  gazed  upon 

thee. 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense. 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced 

in  prayer 

1  worshi))ped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  aie  listening 

to  it. 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wert  blending  with 

my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy. 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  tiansfuscd. 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing,  there. 
As  in  lun'  natural  foim,  swelled  vast  to 
•Heaven  ! 
Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !   not  alone   these  swelling 

tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy  !  Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !    Awake,  my  heart, 

awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my 

hymn. 
Thou  iirst  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the 

vale ! 
0,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the 

night. 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  st  rs, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they 

sink, — 
romjtanion  of  the  morning  star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald, — wake,"^  0,  wake,  and   utter 

praise ! 
Who  sank  thy  sun  less  pillars  deep  in  earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with   rosy 

light  ? 
Who   made   the'e    parent    of    perpetual 

streams  ? 
And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents,  fiercely 

glad !' 
Who  called   you  forth  from  night  and 

utter  death, 


no 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


From  d;i  ik  and  ic\'caverns called  you  forth, 

Down    tliose  precipitou.s,    black,    jagged 
rocks. 

Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever? 

Wlio  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and 
your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 

And  who  commanded   (and  the  silence 
came;), 

Here  let  tlie  billows  stiffen  and  have  rest  ? 
Ye  ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  moun- 
tain's brow 

Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain,  — 

Torrents,  metliinks,  that  heard  a  mighty 
voice. 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest 
pUinge ! 

Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts ! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the;  gates  of 
Heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?    Who  bade 
the  sun 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with 
living  llowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your 
feet  ?  — 

God!   let  the  torrents,  like   a  shout   of 
nations,  . 

Answer !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 

God  !    sing,   ye    meadow  -  streams,   with 
gladsome  voice ! 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul- 
like sounds ! 

And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of 
snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fill  shall  thunder, 
God ! 
Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal 
frost ! 

Y''e  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's 
nest ! 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain- 
storm  I 

Ye  liglitnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the 
clouds ! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements, 

Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with 
praise ! 
Thou,  too,  hoar  Blount !  with  thy  sky- 
pointing  peaks, 

Oft  from  whose;  feet  tlie  avalanche,  un- 
hi'anl. 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the 
pure  serene, 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy 
breast,  — 


Thou  too  again,  stupendoi:s  ilountain! 

thou 
That  as  1  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  Injui  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused 

with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest  like  a  vapory  cloud 
To  rise  before  me  —  Kise,  (),  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud   of  ineense   from  the 

Eaith ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the 

hills. 
Thou   diead  ambassador  from  Earth  to 

Heaven, 
Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  risiugsun. 
Earth,  with  lier  thousand  voices,  praises 

God. 


CHRISTABEL. 
PART    I. 

'T  i.s  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle 

clock. 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing 

cock ; 
Tu-whit !  tu-whoo ! 
And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich. 
Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch  ; 
From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 
She  maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 
Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the 

hour ; 
Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower. 
Sixteen  short  how'ls,  not  over-loud  ; 
Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  sjiread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sk_v. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray; 
'T  is  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

Th(!  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 
.Whom  her  ftther  loves  so  well, 
What  makes  hei-  in  the  wood  so  late, 
A  fuilong  from  the  castle  gate  ? 
She  had  dreams  all  yesterniglit 
Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


Ill 


And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 
For  the  weal  of  her  lovei-  that 's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  lieaved  were  soft  and  low. 
And  naught  was  gi'een  npon  the  oak, 
But  7I10SS  and  rarest  mistletoe  : 
She  kneels  lieneatli  the  huge  oak-tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 
The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 
It  moaned  as  near  as  near  can  be, 
But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. 
On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be 
Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak-tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  niov(;  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek,  — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 
Hanging  so  light,  and  lianging  so  high. 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the 
sky. 

Hush,  heating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu  ]\Iaria,  shield  her  w<ll ! 
She  folded  hei-  arms  beneath  her  cloak. 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 
Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone. 
The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan. 
Her  stately  neck,  and  artrrs  were  bare ; 
Her  blue- veined  feet  unsandalled  were, 
And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 
I  guess,  't  was  frightful  there  to  see 
A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she,  — 
Beautiful  exceedingly ! 

"Mary  mother,  save  me  now  !" 
Said  Christabel;  "and  who  art  thou?" 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet. 
And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sw(!et : 
"Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 
I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness." 
•'Stretcli  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no 

fear!" 
Said    Christabel;    "how    earnest    thou 

here?" 


And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  fcAr.t  and 

sweet. 
Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet :  — 

"My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line. 
And  my  name  is  Geraldine  : 
Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn,  — 
Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  ; 
They  choked  my  cries  with   force   and 

fright,  "^ 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 
The  ]>alfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind. 
And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 
They  spurred  amain,  their   steeds   weie 

white. 
And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 
As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 
I  have  no  thought  what  men  thej'  be; 
Nor  do  1  know  how  long  it  is 
(For  I  have  lain  entranced,  I  wis) 
Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five. 
Took  me  from  the  jialfrey's  back, 
A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 
Somemuttered  words  his  comrades  spoke  : 
He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak  ; 
He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste; 
Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell  — 
I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  pa.st. 
Sounds  as  of  a  castle-bell. 
Stretch  foith  thy  hand  "  (thus  ended  she), 
"And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  Hee." 

Then    Christabel   stretched   forth  her 
hand 
And  comforted  fair  Geraldine: 
"0  well,  bright  dame  !  may  you  command 
The  service  of  Sir  Leoline; 
And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 
Will  he  send  ibrth,  and  iiiends  withal. 
To  guide  and  guaid  you  safe  and  tree 
Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall." 

She  rose :    and  forth  with  steps  they 
passed 
That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 
Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest, 
An<l  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel : 
"All  our  household  are  at  rest. 
The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell ; 
Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health, 
And  may  not  well  awakened  be. 
But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth, 
And  I  beseech  your  courtesy. 
This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me." 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 
Took  the  key  that  fitted  well; 


112 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


A  little  door  sine  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate; 

The  gate  that    was   ironed    within    and 

without, 
Where    an    army   in   battle   array   had 

marched  out. 
The  lady  sank,  belike  through  jjain, 
And  Christalu'l  with  might  and  main 
Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 
'      Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate: 
Then  the  lady  rose  again, 
And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear. 
They  crossed  the  court  :  right  glad  they 

were. 
AtkI  Christabel  devoutly  cried 
To  the  lady  by  her  side: 
"Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 
\V  iio  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress  ! " 
"Alas,  alas!"  said  Geraldine, 
I  cannot  speak  for  weariness."  — 
So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 
They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they 

were. 

Outside  her  kennel  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
Tlie  mastilf  old  did  not  awake, 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make ! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 
Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell 
r>eneatli  tlie  eye  of  Christabel. 
I'erhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  seriteh  ; 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 
Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 
The   brands   were  flat,  the  brands  were 

dying, 
Amid  their  own  wliite  ashes  lying; 
But  when  the  lady  passed,  then;  came 
A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame ; 
And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye. 
Anil  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby. 
Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline 

tall, 
Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the 

wall. 
"0,  softly  tread  !"  .said  Christabel, 
"  .My  father  seldom  slee[)eth  well." 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare, 
-And,  jealous  of  the  listening  air. 
They  steal  their  way  froni  stair  to  stair, 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 
And  now  they  pass  tlie  Baron's  room, 


As  still  as  death  with  stifled  breath ! 
And  now  have  reached  hei-  chamber  door ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  lloor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  they  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chambei'  carved  so  curiously, 
Carved  with  figui'es  strange  and  sweet. 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  bi'ain. 
For  a  lady's  chamber  meet : 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 
The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim  ; 
But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 
Shetrimniedthelamp,  and  made  it  bright, 
And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 
While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight. 
Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

"0  weary  lady,  Geraldine, 
I  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine  ! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  ])Owers ; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers." 

"And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn?" 
Christabel  answered  :   "Woe  is  inc  ! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 
■I  have  heard  the  gray-haired  friar  tell, 
How  on  her  death -bed  she  did  say. 
That  she  sliould  hear  tiie  castle-bell 
Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear!  that  thou  wert  here!" 
"T  would,"  .'^aid  Geraldine,  "she  w-ere!" 
But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  .she  : 
"Off,  wandering  mother !  Peak  and  pine  ! 

1  have  power  to  bi<l  thee  flee." 
Alas!  what  ails  poor  Geraldine? 
Why  stares  she  with  irnsettled  ej'e  ? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy? 
And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she  : 
"Off,  woman,  ott'!  this  hour  is  mine,  — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be, 
Off,  woman,  off!  'T  is  given  to  me." 

Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the   lady's 
.side. 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue ; 
".Alas!"  said  she,  "this  ghastly  ride,  — 
Dear  lady  !  it  hath  wildered  you  !" 
The  lady  wi]K'd  hei-  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  "  'T  is  over  now  !" 

Airain  the  wild-flower  wine  .she  drank  : 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright, 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


113 


And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank 
The  lofty  lady  .stood  upright; 
She  was  most  Iteautii'ul  to  see, 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake  : 
"All  they  who  live  in  the  uj)per  sky 
Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel ! 
And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  whic'h  me  befell, 
Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try. 
Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 
But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  1 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  1  lie." 

Quoth  Christabel,  "So  let  it  be!" 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain,  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  I'ro, 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close ; 
So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  Lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed. 
And  slowdy  rolled  her  eyes  around  ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud. 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast : 
Her  silken  robe  and  inner  vest 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 
Behold  !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side,  — 
A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 
0,  shield  her !  shield  sweet  Christabel ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs; 
Ah  !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay ; 
Tlien  suddenly  as  one  defieil 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  ])ride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  maiden's  side!  — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took. 

Ah  well-a-day  ! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look, 

These  words  did  say  : 
"Inthetouch  of  this  l)osom  there  workcth 

a  spell 
Which  is  loid  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel ! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know 

to-morrow 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my 

sorrow ; 

8 


But  vainly  thou  warrest. 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  })ower  to  declare  ; 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heard'st  a  low  moaning, 
And  found'st  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly 

fair : 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  iu 

love  and  in  charity. 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the 
damp  air." 

THE   CONCLUSION   TO    PAP.T   I. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  Lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  i>raying  at  the  old  oak-tree. 

Ainid  the  jagged  shadows 
Of  mossy  leafless  boughs. 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight. 
To  make  her  gentle  vows ; 
Her  slender  jialms  together  prest, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  Idiss  or  bale,  — 
Her  face,  0,  call  it  fair,  not  pale  ! 
And  both  blue  ej-es  more  briglit  than  clear. 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

With  open  eyes  (ah,  woe  is  me !) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  feartully, 
Fearfullj'  dreaming,  yet,  I  wis, 
Dreaming  that  alone  which  is  — 
O  sorrow  and  shame !     Can  this  be  she, 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak-tree  ? 
And  lo  !   the  worker  of  these  harms. 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms. 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild, 
As  a  mother  with  her  child. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 
0  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  level)'  ladj^'s  prison. 
0  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine, — 
Thou  'st  had  thy  will !     By  tarn  and  rill. 
The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 
But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew. 
From  cliff  and  tower,  tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo  ! 
Tu-whoo  !  ttt-whoo  !  from  wood  and  fell ! 
And  see  !  the  Lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance  ; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes  ;  ami  tears  she  sheds,  — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light! 


114 


SON'GS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Yea,  she  doth  smilo,  and  she  doth  weep, 
Like  a  youtlit'ul  ln'iniitess, 
15t'auti'i)ii.s  in  a  wilderness, 
AViio,  playing  always,  jn-ays  in  sleep. 
And,  it' she  move  uniiniftly, 
Perchance,  't  is  bnt  the  blood  so  free, 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 
^VIl;lt  if  hi-r  guardian  spirit  'twere  ? 
AVluit  if  she  kni'W  her  mother  near  ? 
l>ut  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
Tliat  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call; 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all! 


PAIIT  II. 

"Each  matin-bell,"  tlie  Baron  saith, 
"Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death." 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said, 
AVheii  he  rose  and  found  his  lady  dead: 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say 
Many  a  morn  to  his  dying  day  ! 

And  hence  the  custom  and  law  began. 
That  still  at  dawn  the  saciistan, 
Who  duly  pulls  the  heavy  bell, 
Five-and-forty  beads  must  tell 
Between  each  stroke,  — a  warning  knell, 
AVhieh  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wyndermere. 

Saith  Bracy  the  bard,  "So  let  it  knell ! 
And  let  the  ilrowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can  ! 
There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween. 
As  well  lill  u])  the  space  between. 
In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's  Lair, 
Anil  Dungeon-ghyll  so  foully  rent, 
With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 
Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are  ])ent. 
Who  all  give  back,  one  after  t'  other. 
The  deatli-not(!  to  their  living  brother; 
And  ol't,  too,  by  the  knell  olfended. 
Just  as  their  one!  two!  three!  is  ended, 
The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
Witii  a  merry  peal  from  Borodale." 

The  air  is  still !  through  mist  and  cloud. 
That  merry  ]ieal  comes  liiiging  loud; 
And  (Jeraldine  shakes  olf  her  dread, 
And  rises  liglitly  from  the  bed; 
Puts  on  her  silken  vestTru'uts  white. 
And  tricks  her  hair  in  lovely  plight, 
And,  nothing  doubting  of  her  sj)ell. 
Awakens  tlie  Lady  Christabjl. 


"Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Christabel? 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well." 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 
The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side,  — 
0,  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 
Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak-tree ! 
Nay,  fairer  yet !  and  yet  moie  fair ! 
For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deej) 
Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep  ! 
And  while  she  sjtake,  her  look,  h(;r  air, 
Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare, 
That  (so  it  seemed)  her  girded  vests 
Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 
"Sure  I  have  sinned!"  said  Christabel, 
"Now  Heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well !" 
And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  sweet. 
Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet. 
With  such  perplexity  of  mind 
As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

Soqnicklyshe  rose,  and  quickly  arrayed 
Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having  prayed 
That  He  who  on  the  cross  did  groan 
Alight  wash  away  her  sins  nnknown. 
She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire.  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall. 
And  pacing  on  through  page  andgroom. 
Enter  thi;  Baron's  presence-room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast. 
With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes. 
The  Lady  Geraldine  espies. 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame ! 

P>ut  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tal(% 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name. 
Why  waxed  Sir  Leoline  so  pale, 
Murnnuing  o'er  the  name  again. 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine? 

Alas !  they  had  been  fiiends  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above, 
And  life  is  thorny,  and  youth  is  vain. 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sii'  Leoline. 
Each  spakf!  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother: 
They  parted, — ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 


SAMUEL   TAYLOK   COLERIDGE, 


Hi 


But  never  either  found  another 

To  free  the  hollow  Iieiiit  from  paining; — 

They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 

Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder, 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between  ; 

But  neither  heat  nor  frost  nor  thunder 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Sir  Leoline  a  moment's  space 
Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face. 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryermaine 
Came  back  upon  his  heart  again. 

0,  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age, 
His  noble  heart  swelled  liigli  with  rage ; 
He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu's  side 
He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide 
With  trump  and  .solemn  heraklry. 
That  they  who  thus  had  wronged  the 

dame 
Were  base  as  spotted  infamy  ! 
"And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same, 
My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week. 
And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 
My  tourney  court,  —  that  there  and  then 
I  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men  !" 
He  spake  :  his  eye  in  lightning  rolls  ! 
For  the  lady  was  rutlilesslj'  seized ;  and 

Ire  kenned 
In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his  friend! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  liis  face. 
And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 
Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  the  embrace, 
Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 
Which  when  .she  viewed,  a  vision  fell 
Upon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 
The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain  ! 
She    shrunk    and    sliuddered,   and    saw 

again — 
(Ah,  woe  is  me  !     Was  it  for  thee. 
Thou  gentle  maid  !  such  sights  to  see?) 
Again  she  saw  that  liosom  old. 
Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 
And  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  hissing 

sound : 
Whereat  the  Knight  turned  wildly  round, 
Antljjiothing  saw  but  his  own  sweet  maid. 
With 'eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  prayed. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed  away, 
And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest. 
Which  comforted  her  after-rest 
While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay, 
Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast. 


And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  lier  eyes 
Spread  smiles  like  light ! 

With  new  surprise, 
"What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ?" 
The  Baron  said.     His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  "All  will  yet  i)e  well !" 
I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else ;  so  mighty  was  the  speU. 

Yet  he  who  saw  this  Geraldine 
Had  deemed  her  sure  a  thing  divine. 
Such  sorrow  with  .such  grace  she  blended. 
As  if  .she  feared  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christabel,  that  gentle  maid  ! 
And  with  such  lowly  tones  she  prayed, 
She  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 

"Nay! 
Nay,  by  my  soul !"  said  Leoline. 
"Ho!    Bracy,  the  bard,  the  charge  be 

thine ! 
Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  loud, 
And  take  twosteedswith  trappings  proud. 
And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lov'.st 

best  ' 
To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song. 
And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest, 
And  over  the  mountains  haste  along, 
Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad. 
Detain  you  on  the  valley  load. 
And  when  he  has  crossed  the  Irthingflood, 
My  merry  bard  I  he  hastes,  he  hastes 
Up  Knorren    Moor,  through  Halcgarth 

Wood, 
And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good 
Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland's 

wastes. 

"Bard  Bracy!  Bard  Bracy!  yourhor.ses 

are  fleet. 
Ye  must  ride  up  the  hall,  your  music  .so 

sweet, 
More  loud  than  your  horses'  echoing  feet ! 
And  loud  and  loud  to  Lord  Fioland  call. 
Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall ! 
Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe  and  free,  — 
Sir  Leoline  gi'eets  thee  thus  through  me. 
He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 
With  all  thy  numerous  array. 
And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home ; 
And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 
With  all  his  numerous  array 
White  with  their  panting  palfreys'  foam : 
And  by  mine  honor !  I  will  say. 
That  I  repent  me  of  the  day 
When  I  spake  words  of  fierce  disdain 
To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  !  — 


116 


SONGS   OF  THKEE   CENTURIES. 


For  since  that  evil  hour  hath  flown, 
^lany  a  .suniinci'.s  sun  liath  shone; 
Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  friend  af,'ain 
Lii<e  Kohmd  de  Vnux  of  Ti yenuaine." 

The  hilly  fell,  and  clasped  his  knees, 
Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'ertlo\vini( ; 
And  Bracy  replied,  with  faltering  voice, 
His  gracious  hail  on  all  bestowing!  — 
"Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christahel, 
Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can  tell; 
Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee, 
Tliis  day  my  journey  should  not  be. 
So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  nie, 
That  I  had  vowed  with  music  loud 
To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  nnblest, 
"Warned  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 
For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  tiiat  dove, 
That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love. 
And  call'st  by  thy  own  daughter's  name  — 
Sir  Leoline!   I  saw  the  same 
Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan, 
Amongtiie  green  lierbs  in  tlie forest  alone. 
AViiii'h  wlien  I  saw  and  when  I  h'urd, 
1  wondered  what  might  ail  the  bird ; 
For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see. 
Save  the  grass  and  green  herbs  underneath 
the  old  tree. 

"And  in  my  dream  methought  I  went 
To  search  out  what  might  tiiere  be  found  ; 
And  wliat  the  sweet  bird's  trouble  meant, 
Tliat  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 
I  went  and  jieered,  ami  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry ; 
But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 
I  stooped,  methought,  the  dove  to  take, 
Whi'ii  lo  !  I  .saw  a  bright  green  .snake 
Coileil  around  its  wings  and  neck. 
Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couched. 
Close  liy  the  dove's  its  head  it  crouehed  ; 
And  with  till!  dove  it  heaves  and  stirs. 
Swelling  its  neck  as  she  swelled  hers! 
I  woke;  it  was  the  midnight  hour. 
The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower; 
But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by, 
Tiiis  dream  it  would  not  pass  away,  — 
It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye! 
Aii'i  thcnee  I  vowed  this  sidfsame  day, 
With  music  strong  and  saintly  song 
To  wander  through  the  forest  bare, 
Lest  aught  unholy  loiter  there." 

Thus  Bracy  said :  the  Baron  the  while 
Half-listening  heaid  him  with  a  .smile; 
Then  turned  to  Lady  CJeialdine, 
Hi.s  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love, 


And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine, 
"Sweet  maid.  Lord  Koland's  beauteous 

dove, 
With   arms  more  strong  than  harp  or 

song. 
Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  .snake  !" 
He  kissed  her  forehead  as  he  spake, 
And  Gei'aldine,  in  maiden  wise, 
Casting  down  her  large  bright  eyes, 
With  blushing  cheek  and  courtesy  fine 
She  turned  her  from  Sir  Leoline ; 
Softly  gathering  up  her  train. 
That  o'er  her  right  arm  fell  again  ; 
And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest. 
And  couchetl  her  head  upon  her  bieast, 
.And  looked  askance  at  Christahel  — 
Jesu  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

Asnake'ssmall  eye  blinksdulland  shy. 
And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shiunk  in  her 

head, 
Eai'h  shrunk  up  to  a  serjient's  eye, 
And  with  somewhat  of  malice,  and  more 

of  dread. 
At  Christaljcl  she  looked  askance  ! — • 
One  moment — and  the  sight  was  fled ! 
B'.it  Christahel,  in  dizzy  trance 
Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground. 
Shuddered  aloud,  with  a  hissing  sound; 
And  Geraldine  again  turned  round, 
And  like  a  thing  that  sought  relief, 
Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief, 
S1ie  rolled  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 
Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

Tho.  maid,  alas  !  her  thoughts  are  gone ; 
She  nothing  sees,  — no  sight  but  one  ! 
The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 
I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise 
So  dt'eply  had  she  drunken  in 
That  look,  those  shi-unken  serpent  eyes, 
That  all  her  features  were  I'esigned 
To  this  .sole  ima<;e  in  her  mind, 
And  |iassively  did  imitate 
That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate! 
And  thus  she  stood  in  dizzy  trance. 
Still  ]ni'turing  that  look  askance 
With  foicfd  unconscious  sympathy 
Full  before  her  father's  view, — 
-As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be  » 

In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue  I 
And  when  the  trance  was  o'er,  the  maid 
Paused  awliHe,  and  inly  prayed  : 
Then  falling  at  the  liaron's  feet, 
"  l|v  my  mother's  soul  do  I  entreat 
That  thou  this  wonian  send  away  !" 
She  .said :  and  more  she  could  not  say: 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 


117 


For  what  she  knew  she  could  not  tell, 
O'eiiuasteied  by  the  mighty  sjiell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild, 
Sir  Leoliiie  ?     Thy  only  child 
Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy,  thy  pride, 
So  fail',  so  innocent,  so  mild ; 
The  same  for  whom  thy  lady  died ! 
( ),  by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother, 
'J'hink  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child  ! 
For  hei',  and  thee,  and  for  no  other, 
She  jirayed  the  moment  ere  she  died, — 
Prayed  that  the  babe  foi'  whom  she  died 
Miglit  prove  hei-  dear  htrd's  joy  and  pride  ! 
That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled, 

Sir  Leoline ! 
And  wouldst  thou  wrong  thy  only  child, 

Her  child  and  thine  ? 

Within  the  Baron's  lieart  and  brain. 
If  thoughts  like  these  had  any  share, 
They  only  swelled  his  rage  and  i>ain. 
And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 
His  heart  was  cleft  with  pain  and  rage. 
His  cheeks  they  quivered,  his  eyes  were 

wild. 
Dishonored  thus  in  his  old  age; 
Dishonored  by  his  oidy  child. 
And  all  his  hospitality 
To  the  W7'onged  daughter  of  his  friend, 
By  more  than  woman's  jealousy 
Brought  thus  to  a  disgiaceful  end.  — - 
He  rolled  his  eye  with  stern  regard 
Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  baid, 
And  said  in  tones  abruj>t,  austere, 
"Why,  Bracy  !  dost  thou  loiter  here? 
1  bade  thee  hence  !"     The  baril  obeyed  ; 
And  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid, 
The  aged  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 
Led  forth  the  Lady  Geraldine  ! 

THE   CONCLUSION   TO    PART   II. 

A  LITTLE  child,  a  limber  elf. 
Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 
A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks, 
That  always  finds,  and  never  seeks, 
Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 
As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light ; 
.And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 
T^pon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 
Must  needs  express  his  love's  excess 
With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 
Perluijis  't  is  pretty  to  force  together 
Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other; 
To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm. 
To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm. 


Perhaps  't  is  tender  too  and  pretty 
At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 
And  what  if  in  a  world  of  sin 
(O  sorrow  and  shame,  should  this  lie  true  !) 
Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain. 
So  talks  as  it 's  most  used  to  do. 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

[1774-1843.] 

STANZAS. 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed ; 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  ej-es  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old  ; 
My  never-failing  friends  aie  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal. 

And  seek  relief  in  woe  ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe. 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  dead  ;  with  tl.cin 

I  live  in  Icng-past  years; 
Their  virtues  love,  theii- faults  condemn. 

Partake  tlieir  hopes  and  fear.s. 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  dead ;  anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  futurity : 

Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea,  — 
The  ship  was  as  .still  as  sht^  could  be  ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  o(.'ean. 

Without  eithersignfirsoniidoftheirshock 
The  wavesilowedoverthe  Inchcape  Rock  ; 


118 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


So  littlo  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
Tliey  did  nut  uiuve  tlie  luchcai>e  Dull. 

The  good  old  Abbot  of  Abeibrothok 
Had  pla^jed   that  bell  oil  the   liichcape 

Rock ; 
Oil  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and 

swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

"When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surges' 

swell, 
Tlie  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  tliiMi  they  knew  tlie  perilous  Kock, 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrotliok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 
All  things  were  joyful  on  that  tlay  ; 
The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled 

around. 
And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  IiK-hcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck. 
And  he  hxed  his  eye  on  the  darker  sjieck. 

He  felt  the  clieeriug  power  of  s])ring. 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 
His  lieart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quotli  he,  "My  men,  put  out  the  boat. 
And  row  me  to  the  Im-hc-ape  Rock, 
And  1  '11  ])lague  the  priest  of  Aberbro- 
tliok." 

Tlie  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 
Ami  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go; 
Sii-  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat. 
And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape 
float. 

Down  sank  thebell,  with  agurglingsound, 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around; 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "The  next  who  comes 

to  the  Rock  « 

"Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrotliok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away. 
He  scoured  tlie  .seas  lor  many  a  day ; 
A  nd  now,  gi'own  rich  with  ])luiidered  store. 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  .sliore. 

S  )  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  skv 
They  c-iiinot  see  the  suii  on  high  ;' 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  daj''. 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 


On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand, 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Qiiotli  Sir  Raljdi,  "It  will  be  lightersoon, 
I'orthcreis  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"Canst   hear,"  said  one,  "the  breakers 

I'oar? 
Forinethiiikswe  should  be  neartheshore; 
Is'ow  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell. 
But  1  wish  I  could  hear  the  I  iichcape  BeU. " 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  stnmg; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift 

along. 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering 

shock : 
Cried  they,  "It  is  the  Inchcape.  Rock ! " 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair, 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear, 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  Bell 
The  tiends  below  were  ringing  his  knell. 


BROUGH  BELLS. 

One  day  to  Helbeck  I  had  strolled. 

Among  the  Crossfell  Hills, 
And,  resting  in  the  rocky  grove, 

Sat  listening  to  the  rills^  — 

The  while  to  their  sweet  undersong 
The  l)irds  sang  blithe  around, 

And  the  soft  west-wind  awoke  the  wood 
To  an  intennitting  sound. 

Loudei-  or  fainter,  as  it  rose 

Or  died  away,  was  borne 
The  harmony  of  merry  bells 

From  Biough,  that  pleasant  morn. 


"Why  are  the  meny  bells  of  Brough, 
My  friend,  so  few"?"  said  I ; 

"They  ilisappoint  the  expectant  ear, 
Which  they  should  gratify. 


"One,  two,  tliree,  four;  one,  two,  three, 
four; 

'Tis  still  one,  two,  three,  four: 
Mellow  ami  silvery  are  the  tones; 

But  I  wish  the  bells  were  more!" 


EGBERT   SOUTHEY. 


119 


"What!  art  thoii  critical  ?"  quoth  he; 

"E.s<'he\v  that  heart's  disease 
Tliat  seeketli  t'ur  (lisi)leasure  where 

The  intent  hatli  been  to  please. 

"By  those  four  hells  there  hangs  a  tale, 

Which  being  told,  1  guess, 
Will  make  tiiee  hear  their  scanty  peal 

With  proper  thankfulness. 

"Not  by  the  Cliftbrds  Mere  they  given, 

Nor  by  the  Tultons'  line  ; 
Thou  hearest  in  that  peal  the  crime 

Of  old  John  Brunskill's  kiue. 

"On  Staneinore's  side,  one  summer  eve, 

John  ihunskilhsat  to  see 
His  lieids  in  yonder  Bonodale 

Come  winding  up  the  lea. 

"Behind  them,  on  the  lowland's  verge, 

In  the  evening  light  serene, 
Brough's  silent  tower,  then  newly  built 

By  Blenkinsop,  was  seen. 

"Slowly  they  came  in  long  array, 

With  loitering  pace  at  will ; 
At  times  a  low  from  them  was  heard, 

Far  off,  for  all  was  still. 

"The  hills  returned  that  lonely  sound 

Upon  the  tranquil  air: 
The  only  sound  it  was  which  then 

Awoke  the  echoes  there. 

"  'Thou  hear'st  that  lordly  hull  of  mine. 
Neighbor,'  quoth  Brunskill  then  : 

'How  loudly  to  the  hills  he  crunes, 
That  crune  to  him  again  ! 

"  'Think'stthou  if  yon  wholehcrd  at  once 

Tiieir  voices  sliould  combine. 
Were  they  at  Bi'ough,  that  we  might  not 
Hear  plainly  from  this  upland  spot 
That  cruning  of  the  kine?' 

"  'That  were  a  crune,  indeed,'  replied 
His  comrade,  'which,  I  ween. 

Might  at  tlie  Spital  well  be  heard, 
And  in  all  dales  between. 

"'Up  Mallerstang  to  Eden's  springs, 
TJie  eastern  wind  upon  its  wings 

The  mighty  voice  would  bear ; 
And  Ajjpleby  would  hear  the  soundj 

Methiuks,  when  skies  are  fair.' 


'"Then  shall  the  herd,'  John  Brunskill 
cried, 

'From  yon  chimb  steeple  crune; 
And  thou  and  I,  on  this  hillside. 

Will  listen  to  their  tune. 

'"So,  while  the  merry  Bells  of  Brougli 

For  many  an  age  ring  on, 
John  Brunskill  will  remembered  be, 

When  he  is  dead  and  gone, 

"  'As  one  who,  in  his  latter  years, 

Contented  with  enough, 
(lave  freely  what  he  well  could  spare 

To  bu}'  the  Bells  of  Brough.' 

"Thus  it  hath  proved:    three   hundred 
years 

Since  then  have  passed  away, 
And  Brunskill's  is  a  living  name 

Among  us  to  this  da}'." 

"More  pleasure,"  I  replied,  "shall  I 
J'rom  this  time  forth  partake, 

When  I  remember  Helbeck  woods,     . 
For  old  John  Brunskill's  sake. 

"He  knew  how  wholesome  it  would  be, 
Among  these  wild,  wide  fells 

And  upland  vales,  to  catch,  at  times, 
The  sound  of  Christian  bells  ; — 

"What  feelings  and  what  impulses 

Their  cadimce  might  convey 
To  herdsman  or  to  shei)ht!rd-boy, 
Whiling  in  indolent  employ 

The  solitary  day  ;  — 

"That,  when  his  brethren  were  convened 

To  meet  for  social  prayer. 
He  too,  admonished  by  the  call,  ^ 

In  spirit  might  be  there;  — 

"Or  when  a  glad  thanksgiving  sound, 

Upon  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Was  sen±to  sjieak  a  nation's  joy, 

For  some  great  blessing  given,  — 

"For  victory  hj  sea  or  land, 

And  hapjty  peace  at  length ; 
Peace  by  Ins  country's  valor  won, 

And  stablished  liy  her  strength  ;^ 

"When  such  exultant  peals  were  borne 

Upon  the  mountain  air, 
The  sound  should  stir  his  blood,  and  give 

An  English  impulse  there." 


120 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Such    tlionijhts   were   in  the  old  man's 
iiiiiid, 

AVlieii  he  th;it  eve  looked  down 
From  Stiinrinore's  side  on  Bonodale, 

And  ou  tile  distant  town. 

A?id  had  I  store  of  wealth,  methinks, 

Another  herd  of  kine, 
John  I5rnnskill,  I  would  freely  give, 

That  they  might  cruue  with  thiue. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 

[1775 -1834] 

THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 

The  frufjal  snail,  -with  forecast  of  re]iose, 

(."arries  his  house  with  hiui  where'er  he 
goes ; 

Peeps  out,  — and  if  there  conies  a  shower 
of  rain, 

Retr.>ats  to  his  small  domicile  again. 

Toueii  but  a  tip  of  him,  a  horn, — 'tis 
well,— 

He  curls  u[>  in  his  sanctuary  shell. 

He  's  his  own  landlord,  his  own  tenant ; 
stay 

Longas  he  will,  he  dreads  no  Quarter  Day. 

Himself  he  hoards  and  lodges ;  both  in- 
vites 

And  feasts  himself;  sleeps  with  himself 
o'  nights. 

He  spares  the  upholsterer  trouble  to  pro- 
cure 

Chattels;  himself  is  his  own  furniture. 

And  his  sole  riches.  Wheresoe'er  he 
roajn,  — 

Kuock  when  you  will,  — -he  's  sure  to  be 
at  home. 

THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I   HAVK  had  playmates,  I  liave%ad  pom- 

panioi;s, 
In   my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful 

school -days; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  olil  familiar  faces. 

1  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  ca- 
rousing, 

Driidiing  late,  sitting  late,  with  tny  bos- 
om cronies; 

Ail,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  ! 
Closed  are  her  doors  ou  me  now,  1  must 

not  see  her, — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no 

man : 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly  ; 
Left   him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar 

faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of 

my  childhood. 
Earth  seemed  a  desert  I  was  bound  to 

ti'a  verse. 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  tnore  than  a 

brother. 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's 

dwelling'? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces, — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they 

have  left  me. 
And  some  are  taken  from   me;  all  are 

departed ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


HESTER. 

Whkn  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  ])lace  ye  may  not  well  supi)ly. 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavor. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  lieen  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  woi'my  bed 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  jjride  and  Joy  710  common  rate. 
That  flushed  h(;r  spirit. 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
1  shall  it  call ;  —  if  't  was  not  piide, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied. 
She  did  inherit. 

Tier  parents  hidd  the  Quaker  rule, 
Wliicli  (loth  the  human  feeling  cool; 
i>ut  she  was  trained  in  nature's  s(;hool, 
Natuie  had  blessed  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  ])rying  mind, 

A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind; 


JAMES   HOGG. 


121 


A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
.    Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning? 


JAMES  HOGG. 

[1772-1835.] 

WHEN  MAGGY  GANGS  AWAY. 

0,  AAHAT  will  a"  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away? 
0,  what  will  a'*the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away? 
There  's  no  a  heart  in  a'  the  glen 
That  disna  dread  the  day ;  — 
0,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 
"When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

Young  Jock  has  ta'en  the  hill  for't, 

A  waefu'  wight  is  he  ; 

Poor  Harry  's  ta'en  the  bed  for 't. 

An'  laid  him  down  to  dee ; 

And  Sandy 's  gane  unto  the  kirk, 

And  learnin  fast  to  pray ;  — 

0,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

The  young  laird  0'  the  Lang  Shaw 
Has  drunk  her  health  in  wine ; 
The  priest  has  said — in  conlidence — 
The  lassie  was  divine  ; 
And  that  is  mair  in  maiden's  praise 
Than  ony  priest  should  say  ; — ■ 
But  0,  what  will  the  lads  do 
When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 

The  wailing  in  our  green  glen 

That  day  will  ([uaver  high, 

'T  will  (iraw  the  redbreast  frae  the  wood, 

The  laverock  frae  the  sky ; 

The  fairies  frae  their  beds  o'  dew 

Will  rise  and  join  the  lay,  — 

An'  hey  !  what  a  day  't  will  he 

"When  Maggy  gangs  away  ? 


THE  RAPTURE  OF  KILMENY. 

Bonny  Kihneny  gaed  up  the  glen  ; 
But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira's  men, 
Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 
For  Kilmeny  was  ])ure  as  jiure  could  be. 
It  was  oidy  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing. 
And  pu'  the  cress-Howerround  the  spring ; 
The  scarlet  hip  and  the  hindberrye, 
And  the  nut  that  hangs  frae  the  hazel- 
tree  ; 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
Butlangniayherminny  look  o'er  the  wa', 
And  lang  may  she  seek  i'  the  green-wood 

shaw ; 
Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 
And  lang,  lang  greet,  or  Kilmeny  come 
hame! 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled. 
When  grief  grew  calm,  andhojie  was  dead, 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny's  soul  had  been 

sung. 
When  the  bedesman  had  prayed,  and  the 

dead-bell  rung. 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin'  when  all  was 

still. 
When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westliu' 

hill. 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i'  the  wane. 
The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  jilain,' 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its 

lane ; 
When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  leme, 
Late,  late  in  the  gloamin'  Kilmeny  came 

hame ! 

"Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where    have    you 

been  ? 
Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  den, 
By  linn,  by  ford,  by  greenwood  tree. 
Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  gat  you  that  joup  o'  the  lily  sheen  ? 
That  bonny  snood  o'  the  birk  sae  green  ! 
And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  were 

seen  ?    , 
Kilmeny,    Kilmeny,    where     have     you 

been?" 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 
But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face  ; 
As  still  was  her  look,  and   as   still  was 

her  e'e. 
As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant 

lea. 
Or   the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless 

sea. 


122 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


For  Kilineny  had  beeu  she  knew  not 

whi-iv, 
And  Kilnieny  had  seen  what  she  could 

not  dechii'e. 
Kihneny  hail  been  where  the  cock  never 

CVi'W, 

Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind 

never  blew ; 
But  it  sccnu'd  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had 

riiii<r, 
And  the  airs  of  heaven  jilayed  round  her 

tongue, 
When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she 

had  seen. 
And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been, — 
A  land  of  love  and  a  land  of  light, 
Withouten  sun  or  moon  or  night; 
"Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream, 
And  the  light  a  pure  celestial  beam : 
The  land  of  vision  it  would  seem, 
A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 
In  yon  green-wood  there  is  a  walk, 
And  in  that  waik  there  is  a  wene, 
And  in  that  wene  there  is  a  maike, 
That  neither  has  tiesli,  blood,  nor  bane  ; 
And  down  in  yon  green-wood  he  walks 

his  lane. 

In  that  green  wene  Kilmeny  lay, 
Her  bosom  hapjied  wi'  the  Howeretsgay; 
But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep, 
And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep ; 
She  kend  nae  mnir,  nor  opened  her  e'e. 
Till  waked  liy  the  iiynins  of  a  far  country e. 
She  awaked  on  a  couch  of  the  silk  sac 

slim. 
All  striped  wi'  the  bars  of  the  rainbow's 

rim ; 
And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife, 
"Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life; 
And  aye  they  smiled,  and  'gan  to  speer, 
"What  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal 

here?" 
They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands 

sae  fair. 
They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kerned 

her  hair, 
Andj'ound  came  many  a  bhtoining  fere. 
Saying,  "  Bonny  Kilmenv,  ye 're  welcome 

here! 

"0,  would  the  fairest  of  mortal  kind 
Aye  keep  the  holy  truths  in  mind, 
Tliat  kiiiilred  spirits  thi'ir  motions  see. 
Who  watrh  tluir  ways  witli  anxious  e'e. 
Anil  grieve  for  tlie  guilt  of  Ininianitye  ! 
O,  sweet  to  Heaven  the  maiden's  prayer, 


And  the  sigh  that  heaves  a  bosom  sae  fair ! 
And  dear  to  Heaven  the  words  of  truth. 
And  the  praise   of  vii'tue  frae  beauty's 

mouth ! 
And  dear  to  the  viewless  forms  of  air, 
The  minds  tliat  kythe  as  the  body  fair! 
0  Iwnny  Kilnieny  !  free  fiae  stain, 
If  ever  you  seek  the  world  again,  — 
That  world  of  sin,  of  sorrow,  and  fear,  — 
O,  tell  of  th(!  joys  that  are  waiting  here. 
And  tell  of  the  signs  you  shall  shortly  see  ; 
Of  the  times  that  are  now,  and  tlie  times 

that  shall  be." 

They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away. 
And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a  sunless 

day  : 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  crystal  bright, 
The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of 

light ; 
The  enu^rald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow. 
And  the  llowers  of  everlasting  blow. 
Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they 

laid. 
That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might 

fadV ; 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven,  when  they 

saw  her  lie 
In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by. 
And  slie  heard  a  song,  she  heard  it  sung. 
She  kend  not  where ;  but  .sae  sweetly  it 

rung, 
It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a  dream  of  the 

morn : 
"0,  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spiiits  see. 
Now  shall  it  ken  what  a  woman  may  be ! 
Tlie  sun  tlia  t  shiii(>s  on  the  world  sae  bright, 
A  borroweil  gleid  of  the  fountain  of  light; 
iVml  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  skysae  dun. 
Like  a  goiiden  bow,  or  a  beamless  sun. 
Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mair. 
And  the  angels  shall  miss  them  travelling 

the  air. 
But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day. 
When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  elyed 

away ; 
When  the  sinner  has  gane  to  his  waesome 

(li>i)in, 
Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom  !" 

Then  Kilmeny  begcred  again  to  see 

The  friends  slie  had  left  in  her  own  coun- 

trye, 
To  tell  oi'  the  ])laee  where  she  had  been. 
And  tiie  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  un- 
seen : 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


123 


To  warn  the  living  maidens  fair, 
The  loved  of  Heaven,  the  sj)irits'  care. 
That  all  whose  minds  unnieled  remain 
Shall  bloom  in  lieauty  when  time  is  gane. 

AVith  distant  music,  soft  and  deep, 
The}'  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep  ; 
And  vvlien  she  awakened,  siie  lay  her  lane. 
All  happed  with  Howers  in  the  green- wood 

wene. 
"When  seven  long  years  were  come  and 

fled; 
When  grief  was  calm,  and  hope  was  dead ; 
When  scarce  was  lemembered  Kilmeny's 

name. 
Late,  late  in  a  gloamin'    Kilmeny  came 

haine ! 
And  0,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 
But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  e't ! 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 
Tor  there  was  no  jiride  nor  passion  there ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maiden's  een 
In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 
Her  seymar  was  the  lily  liower. 
And  her  cheek  themoss-roseintheshower. 
And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye, 
That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 
But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 
And    keeped    afar    frae    the   haunts  of 

men  ; 
Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing, 
To  suck  the  flowers,  and  drink  the  spring. 
But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appeared, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  were  cheered  : 
The  wolf  played  blitliely  round  the  field, 
Tlie  lordly  bison  lowed  and  kneeled ; 
The  dun  deer  wooed  with  manner  bland, 
And  cowered  aneath  her  lily  hand. 
And  when  at  even  the  woodlands  rung, 
AVhen  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  sung 
In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 
0,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion  ! 
Tlie  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 
Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the 

tame. 
And  goved  around,  charmed  and  amazed  ; 
Even  the  dull  cattle  crooned  and  gazed, 
And  nuirmured,  and  looked  with  anxious 

pain 
For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 
The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock  ; 
The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock  ; 
The  bJackbiid  alang  wi'  the  eagle  flew; 
The  hind  canu^  tripping  o'er  the  dew  ; 
The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began. 
And   the   tod,  and   the   lamb,  and    the 

leveret  ran ; 


The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung. 
And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  lorhooyed 

their  young; 
And  ail  in  a  peaceful  ring  were  hurled  ;  — 
It  was  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world ! 

When  a  month  and  a  day  had  come  and 

gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  green-wood  wene ; 
There  laiil  her  down  on  the  leaves  sae 

green, 
And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair 

seen. 
But   0,   the  words    that  fell  from    her 

mouth 
Were  words   of  wonder,   and  words  of 

truth ! 
But  all  the  land  were  in  fear  and  dread. 
For  they  kendna  whether  she  was  living 

or  dead. 
It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldna  re- 
main ; 
She  left  tliis  world  of  sorrow  and  ]iain, 
And  returned  to  the  Laud  of  Tiiought 

again. 


THOMAS  MOORE. 

[1779-1852.] 

FLY  TO  THE  DESERT. 

Fi.Y  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me. 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee ; 
But,  0,  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt, 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  witliout? 

Our  rocks  are  rough,  but  smiling  there 
The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  (lowering  in  a  wilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare,  but  down  their  slope 

The  silvery-footed  antelope 

As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 

As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

• 
Then  come, — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 

The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree, 

The  antelope,  whose  feat  shall  bless 

With  their  light  sound  thy  loveliness. 

0,  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, 
x\s  if  tlie  soul  that  minute  cauglit 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 


124 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


As  if  tlie  very  lips  and  eyes 
rredestiued  to  have  all  our  sighs, 
And  never  be  forgot  again, 
Si>arkled  and  sjxjke  before  us  then  ! 

So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 
Wlien    lirst   on  uie  they  breathed  and 

shone ; 
New  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 
Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years. 


THE  MID  HOUR  OF  NIGHT. 

At   the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars 

are  weeping,  I  fly 
To   the  lone   vale  we   loved,  when  life 

shone  warm  in  tliine  eye  ; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from 

the  regions  of  air. 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou 

wilt  come  to  me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remembered  even 

in  the  sky ! 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  't  was    once 

such  pleasure  to  hear. 
When  our  voices,  comuiiiigling,  breathed 

like  one  on  the  ear ; 
And,  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale 

my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I    think,  O  my  love  !  'tis  thy  voice, 

from  the  Kingdom  of  Souls, 
Faintly  answering   still   the  notes  that 

once  were  so  dear. 


THE  VALE  OF  AVOCA. 

Thehp:  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley 

so  sweet 
As  that  vale,  in  whose  bosom  the  bright 

waters  meet ; 
0,  the  last  ray  of  feeling  and  life  must 

depart 
Ere  th(!  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade 

from  my  heart ! 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er 

the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of 

green ; 
'T  was  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or 

hill, — 
0,  no !  it  was  something  more  exquisite 

still. 


'T  was  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my 
bosom,  were  near. 

Who  made  ever)'  dear  scene  of  enchant- 
ment more  dear. 

And  who  felt  how  tlie  best  charms  of 
nature  improve. 

When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks 
that  we  love. 

Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca  !  how  calm  could 
I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends 
I  love  best ; 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this 
cold  world  should  cease. 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  min- 
gled in  peace. 


O  THOU    WHO  DRY'ST  THE    MOURN- 
ER'S TEAR. 

0  Thou  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear  ! 

How  dark  this  world  would  l)e, 
If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 

We  could  not  fly  to  thee. 
The  friends  who  in  our  sunshine  live, 

AVhen  winter  comes,  are  flown  ; 
And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone. 
But  thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart 

Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fi-agrance  from  the  wounded  part, 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers, 

And  e'en  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears 

Is  dimmed  antl  vanished  too, 
0,  who  would  bear  life's  stormy  doom, 

Did  not  thy  Ming  of  love 
Come,  brightly  wafting  through  thegloo;n 

Our  peace-branch  from  above  ? 
Then   sorrow,    touched  by    thee,    grows 
briglit 

With  more  than  ra|)ture's  ray; 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  oi'  light 

We  never  saw  by  day  ! 


THOU  ART,   O  GOD! 

TiTor  art,  O  God  !  the  life  and  light 
Of  all  this  wondrous  world  we  see; 

Its  glow  liy  day,  its  smile  by  night, 
Are  but  reflections  caught  from  thee. 


GEORGE   GORDON   (LORD   BYRON). 


125 


Where'er  we  turn,  thy  glories  shine, 
And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  thine. 

When  day,  with  farewell  beam,  delays 
Among  the  opening  clouds  of  even, 

And  we  can  almost  think  we  gaze 

Through  golden  vistas  into  heaven, — 

Those  hues  th.at  make  the  sun's  decline 

So  soft,  so  radiant.  Lord!  are  thine. 

When  night,  with  wings  of  starry  gloom, 
0"ershad(nvs  all  the  earth  and  SKies, 

Like  some  dark,  beauteous  bird,  whose 
plume 
Ls  sparkling  with  unnumbereil  eyes,  — 

That  sacred  gloom,  those  hres  divine. 

So  grand,  so  countless.  Lord !  are  thine. 

When  youthful  springaroundusbreathes, 
Thy  spirit  warms  her  fragrant  sigh  ; 

And  every  Hower  the  summer  wreathes 
Is  born  beneath  that  kindling  eye. 

Where'<'r  we  turn,  thy  glories  shine, 

And  all  things  fair  and  bright  are  Thine. 


-♦ 


GEORGE 


GORDON 
BYRON). 

[178S-1824.] 


(LORD 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  stairy  skies, 

And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and"  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes. 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  Heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Oi'  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face. 

Where  thouglits  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear   their  dwelling- 
])lace. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow. 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  elo(|uent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow. 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHERIB. 

TuE  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf 

on  the  fold,  > 

And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple 

and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like 

stars  on  the  sea, 
When   the    blue  wave   rolls  nightly  on 

deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  wlien  sum- 
mer is  green. 

That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset 
were  seen ; 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  au- 
tumn hath  blown. 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered 
and  strown. 


For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings 

on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he 

passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly 

and  chill. 
And  their  heaits  but  once  heaved,  and 

forever  grew  still !  * 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostrils 
all  wide. 

But  through  tliem  there  rolled  not  the 
breath  of  his  ]iride  : 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white 
on  the  tui'f. 

And  cold  as  the  ipray  of  the  rock-beat- 
ing surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and 
pale, 

Witli  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust 
on  his  mail ; 

And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  ban- 
ners alone, 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  un- 
blown. 


And  the  widows  of  Asbur  are  loud  in 

their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  templf  of 

Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote 

by  the  sword. 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of 

the  Lord ! 


12G 


SOXGS  OF  THREE  CENTURIES. 


THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA. 

Ci.KAn,  placiiJ  Lenian  !  tliv  contrasteil 

lake, 
"With  tlie  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a 

thing 
"Which  warns  nie,  with  its  stillness,  to 

forsaki! 
Earth's   troubled  waters  for  a   jiurer 

spring. 
This  (niiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I 

loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  nnir- 

Tnuring 
Sounds   sweet   as    if  a   sister's   Toicc. 

re|)roved. 
That    I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er 

have  been  so  moved. 

It  is  the  liush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk, 

yet  clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly 

seen. 
Save  <larkened  Jura,  whose  capt heights 

appear 
Precipitously  steep  ;  and  drawing  near, 
T'liere  breathes  a  living  fragrance  fror.i 

the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood ; 

on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended 

oar. 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night 

carol  more : 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the 

brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then   ij 

still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the 

hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
"\Vee])ing    themselves    away,  till   they 

infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of 

her  hues. 


MONT  BLANC. 

JIoxT  Ri.ASC  is  the  monarch  of  moun- 
tains ; 
Tliey  crowned  hira  long  ago 


On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds. 

With  a  diadem  of  snow. 
Around  his  waist  are  forests  braced, 

The  avalaiudu!  in  his  hand ; 
But  ere  it  fall,  that  thundering  ball 

Must  pause  for  my  command. 

The  glacier's  cold  and  restless  mass 

Moves  onwartl  day  by  day; 
But  I  am  he  who  bids  it  pass, 

Or  with  its  ice  delay. 
I  am  tlie  spirit  of  the  place, 

Could  make  the  mountain  bow 
And  (juiver  to  his  caverned  base, — 

And  what  with  me  wouldst  Thou? 


THE  IMMORTAL  MIND. 

"WiiF.N'  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay. 

Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darkened  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  eacli  planet's  heavenly  way  ? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  tmdecayed, 

A  thought  imseen,  but  seeing  all. 
All,  all  in  earth  or  skies  displayed. 

Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 
Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds 

So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds, 

And  all  that  was  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peopled  earth. 

Its  eyes  shall  roll  through  chaos  back  ; 
And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had  birth, 

Tlie  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 
And  whei-e  the  future  mars  or  makes, 

Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be. 
While  sun  is  quenched  or  system  breaks, 

Fixed  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  love,  hope,  hate,  or  fear, 
It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure  : 

An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year; 
Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 

Away,  away,  without  a  wing. 

O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts  shall 

fiy,-     ^ 

A  nameless  and  eternal  thing. 
Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY, 


12T 


rEPtCY  BTSSHE  SHELLEY. 

[1792- 1822.] 

STANZAS    "WRITTEN     IN    DEJECTION 
NEAR  NAPLES. 

The  sun  if  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  briglit, 
lUue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  pur})le  noon's  transparent  light : 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 
Around  its  unexpauded  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight,  — 
The    winds',   the    birds',    the    ocean- 
floods',  — 
The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Soli- 
tude's. 


I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 
With    green    and    }iurple     sea-weeds 

strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 
Like  light  dissolved   in  star-showers 

thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone ; 
The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  Hashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, — 
How  sweet,  did  any  heart  now  share  i:i 

my  emotion ! 

Alas !  I  have  nor  liope  nor  health. 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Kor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found. 
And     walked     with     inward     glory 

crowned,  — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor 

leisure ; 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround, — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another 

measure. 


Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  wee])  awaj'  the  life  of  care 
Whii'h  1  haveborne,  and  yet  must  bear. 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me. 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  mo- 
notony. 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring 
ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run. 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just 
begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven. 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thoir  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 
delight.  • 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  s]>iiere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

W^ith  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven 
is  overflowed. 


What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 
melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  tlie  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with    hopes  and   fears   it 
heeded  not ; 


128 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Like  a  lii^}i-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laileu 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows 
her  bower ; 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  (lew. 
Scattering  unheholden 
Its  aeiial  hue 
Among  the  Howers  and  grass,  which  screen 
it  from  the  view; 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  dellowcred, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these 
heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  tlu!  twinkling  grass, 
liain -awakened  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear   and  fresh   thy  music 
doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  biid, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine! 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so 
divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal 

Or  triumphal  chant 
Matched  with  thine,  Avould  be  all 
Hut  an  empty  vaunt, — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some 
hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  ])Iaiii  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind !  what  igno- 
rance of  pairt  ? 

AVith  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be ; 
Sliadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad 
satiety. 


Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  nioie  true  and  deep 
Tiian  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  tliy  notes  How  in  such  a 
crystal  stream .' 

We  look  before  and  after. 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of 
saddest  thought. 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear; 
If  we,  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  tlian  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  ]>oet  were,  thou  scorner  of 
the  gnjund ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  wouhl  flow. 
The  world  shouhl  listen  then,  as  I  ara 
listening  now  ! 


ONE  WORD  IS  TOO  OFTEN  PROFANED. 

OxE  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  ])rudence  to  smother. 
And  \nty  from  thee  is  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above. 

And  the  heavens  reject  not,  — 
The  desire  of  the  motli  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  sometliing  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 


JOHN    KEATS. 


129 


JOHN  KEiTS. 

[1796-1821.] 

THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  AGNES. 

Saint  Agnes'  Eve,  — ah,  bitter  chill  it 

was!' 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-colJ  ; 
The  hare  limped    tif!iiibling    through 

the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  Hock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb   were   the    beadsman's    lingers 

while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  ]iious  incense  lioiu  a  censer  old. 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  with- 
out a  death. 
Past  the  sweet  virgin's  picture,  while  his 
prayer  he  saith. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy 

man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from 

his  knees. 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot, 

wan. 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees  : 
The    sculptured   dead,  on   each   side, 

seem  to  freeze, 
Imprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails: 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  ora- 

t'ries. 
He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  s]iirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods 

and  mails. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little 

door. 
And   scarce   three   steps,  ere   music's 

golden  tongue 
Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and 

poor; 
But  no,  — already  had  his  death-bell 

rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and 

sung  ; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  Saint  Agnes' 

Eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for   ainnei;^' 

sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prel- 
ude soft ; 

And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door 
was  wide, 


From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to 

chide ; 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their 

pride. 
Were   glowing  to  receive  a  thousand 

guests ; 
Tlie  carvc'd  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
►Stared,  where    ujion    their    heads    the 

cornice  rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings   put 

crosswise  on  their  breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry. 
With  plume,  tiara,  ami  alt  rich  array, 
Numeious  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuffed  in  youth  with 

triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wi.sh 

away,  * 

And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady 

there. 
Whose    heart   had   brooded,  all   that 

wintry  day. 
On  love,  and  winged  Saint  AgneS' saint- 
ly care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  man}', 
times  declare. 

Thev  told  her  how,  upon  Saint  Agnes' 
"Eve, 

Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of 
delight. 

And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  re- 
ceive 

Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night. 

If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 

As,   fcujiperless   to  bed  they  must  re- 
tire. 

And  couch  sujiine  their  beauties,  lily 
white; 

Nor   look    behind,  nor  sideways,  but 
require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that 
they  desire. 

Full    of    this   whim   was   thoughtful 

Madeline  : 
The  music,  yearning  Jike  a  god  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard ;  her  niaiden  ej'es 

divine, 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweep- 
ing train 
Pass  by,  —  she  heeded  notat  all  :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retired  ;  not  cooled  bj'  high 
disdain. 


130 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


But  she  saw  not ;  her  lieart  was  other- 
where ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweet- 
est of  the  year. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regard- 

h'ss  e\-es. 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick 

and  short : 
The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand  : 

she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged 

resort 
Of  whispers,  or  in  anger  or  in  sport ; 
Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and 

scorn. 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy;  all  amort, 
S.ive  to  Saint   Agnes,   and  her  lambs 

unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 

morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered  still.     Meantime,  across 

the  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  \vith  heait 

on  fire 
For  Madeline.    Beside  the  portal  doors. 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he, 

and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Made- 
line, 
But  forone  moment  in  the  tedionshours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all 
unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss,  —  in 
sooth,  such  things  have  been. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzzed  whisper 

tell ; 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  ora hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  love's  feverous 

citadel. 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 

hordes. 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
AVhose   very  dogs  would   execrations 

howl 
Against  his  lineage;   not   one   breast 

affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  man.sion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and 

in  soul. 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  ci'eature 

came. 
Shuffling    along    with   ivory  -  headed 

wand. 


To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's 

flame. 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  b<'yond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus 

bland. 
He  startled  her;   but  soon  she  knew 

his  face. 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied 

hand. 
Saying,    "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !    hie  thee 

from  this  place ; 
They  are  all    here   to-night,  the   whole 

bloodthirsty  race ! 

"Get  hence  1  get  hence  !  there 's  dwarf- 
ish Hildcbrand ; 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
>    He  curseil  thee  and  thine,  both  house 
and  land : 

Then  there  's  that  old  Lord  Maurice, 
not  a  whit 

More   tame    for  his  gray  hairs — Alas 
me:  tlit! 

Flit  like  a  ghost  away. " —  "  Ah  !  gossip 
dear. 

We  're  safe  enough  ;  liere  in  this  arm- 
chair sit. 

And  tell   me   how" — "Good  saints! 
not  here,  not  here ; 
Follow  me,  chihl,  or  else  these  stones  will 
be  thy  bier." 

He  followed  through  a  lowly  arched 

way. 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty 

plume. 
And  as  she  muttered    ""Well-a  —  well- 

aday!" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlit  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill, andsilentasatomb. 
"Xow  tell  me   where   is   Madeline," 

said  he, 
"0,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may 

see. 
When  they  Saint  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving 

piously." 

"Saint  Agnes !  Ah  !  it  is  Saint  Agnes' 

Eve,  — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days; 
Thou  must  hold  waterinawitch'ssieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  elves  and 

fays. 
To  venture  .so:  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  Saint  Agnes' 

Eve ! 


JOHN   KEATS. 


131 


God's  help!  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer 

plays 
This  very  night ;  good  angels  her  de- 

CGlVy  ! 

But  let  me   laugh  awhile,  I  've   mickle 
time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth   in   the  languid 

moon, 
While  Poiphvrouponhertacedothlook, 

Like  puzzled  un^hin  on  an  aged  crone 

"Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle- 
book, 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney-nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when 
she  told 

His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could 
brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchant- 
ments cold. 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

Sudden   a  thought  came  like  a  full- 
blown rose,  .    , 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained 

heart 
Made  purple  riot;  then  doth  he  pro- 
pose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame 

start : 
"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ! 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and 

dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart  ^ 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  I 
—  I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that 
thou  didst  seem." 

"1  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I 
swear '"" 


Quoth  Porphyro ;  "  0,  may  I  ne  er  find 

grace. 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its 

last  prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space,  ^ 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's 

ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more 

fanged  than  wolves  and  bears. 

"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble 
soul  ? 

A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church- 
yard thing, 


Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  mid- 
night toll ; 

Whose  jirayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and 
evening. 

Were  never  missed."     Thus  plaining, 
doth  she  bring 

jY  gentler  speech  from  burning  Por- 
phvro ; 

So  wofiil,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal 
or  woe. 

Which  was  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there 

hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  nnespied. 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless 

bride. 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  cover- 
let. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy- 
eyed. 
Kever  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin   paid   his   demon   all   the 
monstrous  debt. 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the 

dame : 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored 

there 
Quickly  on  this   feast-night:   by  the 

tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see ;  no  tune 

to  spare. 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience ; 

kneel  in  i)rayer 
The  while.     Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the 

lady  wed. 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among 

the  dead." 


So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy 

fear.  . 

The    lover's    endless   minutes   slowly 

passed : 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in 

his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they 

gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed, 

and  chaste ; 


132 


SONGS   OF   TIlllEE   CENTURIES. 


Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  i)leased 
amain. 
His  poor  follicle  hurried  back  with  agues 
in  her  brain. 

Her  faltering  liaud  upon  the  balus- 
trade, 

Old  Angela  was  fcrlincc  for  tlie  stair, 

Wlien  ^ladeliue,  Saint  Agues' cliarnied 
maid, 

Rose,  like  a  missioned  sj)irit,  unaware ; 

With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious 
care , 

She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip 
led 

To  a  safe  level  matting.   Now  jirejjare, 

Young  Porphyro,   for  gazing  on  that 
bed ! 
She  comes,  .she  comes  again,  like   ring- 
dove frayed  and  tied. 

Out  went  the  tajier  as  she  hurried  in. 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine 

died  : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  : 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble. 
Paining    with    eloquence    her   balmy 

si  tie  ; 
As   tliough   a  tongueless   nightingale 

should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled, 

in  her  dell. 

A   casenK'ut    high    and    triple-arched 

theie  was. 
All  garlanded  with  earven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of 

knot-grass. 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint 

device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and   splendid 

dyes 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked 

wings ; 
And    in    tlie   midst,  'mong    thousand 

heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  embla- 
zon ings, 
A  shielded  seutelii'OTi  lilushed  with  blood 

of  (jueens  and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  win- 
try moon. 

And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's 
fair  breast, 


As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace 

and  boon : 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together 

prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And    on    her    hair    a    glory,    like    a 

saint : 
She   seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly 

di'est, 
Save    wings,  for    heaven  :  —  Porphyro 

grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  i)ure  a  thing,  so  free  from 

mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers 
done. 

Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she 
frees ; 

Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by 
one ; 

Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  de- 
grees 

Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her 
knees : 

Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea- 
weed, 

Pensive  awhile  .she  dreams  awake,  and 
sees. 

In  fancy,  fair  Saint  Agnes  in  her  bnl, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the 
charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly 

nest 
In  sort   of  wakeful  swoon,  perplexed 

she  lay, 
Until   the   poppied  warmth    of  sleep 

oppressed 
Her  soothed  lindis,  and  soul  fatigued 

awa}^ ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  mor- 
row-day ; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  ami 

pain  ; 
Clasped   like   a  missal    where    swart 

Paynims  pray ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from 

rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  ami  be  a 

bud  again. 

Stolen   to   this   paradise,  and  so  en- 
tranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  em]ity  dress, 
And   listened  to   her   breathing,  if  it 
chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 


JOHN   KEATS. 


loo 


Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute 

did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself:  then  from  the 

closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent, 

stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where, 

lo  !  — how  fast  she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded 
moon 

Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 

A    table,   and,   half  anguished,  threw 
thereon 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and 
jet:  — 

Ofor  some  drowsj'  Morphean  amulet! 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clar- 
ion. 

The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clar- 
ionet, 

Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying 
tone  :  — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the 
noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she    slept   an   azure-lidded 
sleep. 

In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  laven- 
dered, 

While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought 
a  heap 

Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum, 
and  gourd ; 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy 
curd, 

And  lucid  syrops,  tinct  with  cinna- 
mon ; 

Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 

From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every 
one. 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Leb- 
anon. 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glow- 
ing hand 

Ou  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  wreathed  silver:  sumptuous  they 
stand 

In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume 
light.  — 

"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair, 
awake ! 

Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine 
eremite : 


Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  Saint  Agnes' 
sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul 
doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved 

arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her 

dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains :  —  't  was  a  mid- 
night charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight 

gleam; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies : 
It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's 
eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  lan- 
tasies. 

Awakening  up,  he   took   her   hollow 

lute,— 
Tumultuous,  —  and,  in  chords  that  teu- 

derest  be, 
He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since 

mute, 
In  Provence    ealled,  "La  belle  dame 

sans  mercy" ; 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  : 
Wherewith    disturbed,  she    uttered    a 

soft  moan ;  • 
He   ceased  — she  jianted  quick  —  and 

suddenly 
Her  Hue  atl'rayedeyeswideopen  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  lie  sank,  pale  as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

Hereyeswere  open,  but  she  sti'l  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleq) : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh 

expelled 
The  blisses  of  her  dieam  so  pure  and 

deep  ; 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weeji, 
And  moan   forth   witless   words  with 

manv  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Poiphyro would 

keep, 
Who   knelt,  with  joined   hands   and 

piteous  eye. 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so 

dreamingly. 

"Ah,  Poiphyro! "said  she,  "but  even 

now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine 

ear. 


134 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Jfadc  tuiiaLlc  witli  eveiy  sweetest  vow ; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and 
clear; 

How  changed  thou  art  I  how  pallid, 
chill,  and  drear! 

Givenie  that  voice  again,  my  Porpliyro, 

Those  looks  inniiortal,  those  complain- 
ings dear ! 

0,  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I   know  not 
where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal,  Hushed,  and  like  a  throbbing 

star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep 

repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution   sweet :   meantime  the  frost- 
wind  blows 
Like  love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp 
sleet 
Against  tlie  window-panes;  Saint  Agues' 
moon  hath  set. 

'T  is  dark :  (juick  pattereth  the  flaw- 
blown  sleet : 

"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Mad- 
eline!" 

'Tis  dark:  the  iced  gusts  still  rave 
and  beat : 

"No dream, alas !  alas  !  andAvoeismine  ! 

Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade 
and  ])ine.  — 

Cruel  !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither 
bring? 

T  curse  not,  formy  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 

Though  thou  fbrsakesta  deceived  thing ; 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick,  un- 
pruned  wing." 

"My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer !  lovely 

bride ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shapgd  and 

vermeil  dyed  ? 
Ah,  silver  slninc,  here  will  I  tak(>  my 

rest 
Aftei'  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  ]iiigrim,~  saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  liave  found,  I   will  not  rob 

thy  nest 
Savingofthy.sweetsclf;  if  thoutliink'st 

well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 


"Hark  !  't  is  an  elfin-storm  from  fairy- 
land. 

Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 

Arise,  — arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  ne\er  heecl : 

Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  hajipy 
speed ; 

There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to 
see. 

Drowned  all  in  Rlienish  and  the  sleepy 
mead : 

Awake !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  1  have  a 
home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with 

fears. 
For   there  were  sleeping  dragons   all 

around. 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready 

spears,  — 
Dowli  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way 

they  found,  — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human 

sound. 
A  chain-dropped  lamp  was  flickering 

by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk, 

and  hound. 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  up- 
roar. 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 

floor. 

They  glide,    like  phantoms,   into  the 

wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they 

glide, 
"Where  lay  the  porter,  in  nneasy  s])nnvl. 
With   a    huge    empty    flagon    by    his 

side : 
The   wakeful    bloodhound    rose,   and 

shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns: 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy 

slide  ; 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  "the  foot-worn 

stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  nj)on    its 

hinges  groans. 

And  the}'^  are  gone :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  stnmi. 
That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  many 

a  woo, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade 

and  form 


JAMES   MONTGOMERY. 


135 


Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin- 
worm, 
Were    long   be-nightmared.       Angela 

the  old, 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  tace 

deform. 
The   beadsman,  after   thousand   aves 

told,  ,. 

For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his 

ashes  cold. 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

[1771-1854.] 

THE  COMMON  LOT. 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

There  lived  a  man  ;  and  who  was  he  { 

Mortal !  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
That  man  resembled  thee. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth. 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown ; 

His  name  has  perished  from  the  earth. 
This  truth  survives  alone  : 

That  ioy,  and  grief,  and  hope,  and  fear. 
Alternate,  triumphed  in  his  breast ; 

His  bliss  and  woe,  — a  smile,  a  tear ! 
Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

He  suffered,— but  his  pangs  are  o'er; 

Enjoyed,  —but  his  delights  are  tied; 
Had  "friends,— his  friends  are   now  no 
more ; 

And  foes,— his  foes  are  dead. 


He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee  : 
He  was— whatever  thou  hast  been; 

He  is— what  thou  shalt  be. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night. 
Sun,  moon,  and   stars,  the  earth  and 
main, 

Erewhile  his  portion ,  life,  and  light, 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw. 

Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 
No  vestige  where  they  flew. 


The  annals  of  the  human  race. 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began, 

Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 
Than  this,  —there  lived  a  man  ! 


FOREVER  WITH  THE  LORD. 

Forever  with  the  Lord ! 
Amen  !  so  let  it  be  ! 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word. 
And  immortality. 

Here  in  the  body  pent. 
Absent  from  Him  I  roam. 
Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent 
A  day's  march  nearer  home. 

My  Father's  house  on  high. 
Home  of  my  soul !  how  near, 
At  times,  to  faith's  foreseeing  eye 
Thy  golden  gates  appear ! 

Ah  !  then  my  spirit  faints 
To  reach  the  land  1  love, 
The  bright  inheritance  of  saints, 
Jerusalem  above ! 

Yet  clouds  will  intervene, 
And  all  my  prospect  flies ; 
Like  Noah's  dove,  I  flit  between 
Rough  seas  and  stormy  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  depart, 
The  winds  and  waters  cease ; 
While  sweetly  o'er  my  gladdened  heart 
Expands  the  bow  of  peace  ! 

Beneath  its  glowing  arch. 
Along  the  hallowed  ground, 
I  see  cherubic  armies  march, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 
At  noon  and  midnight  hour. 
The  choral  harmonies  of  heaven 
Earth's  Babel  tongues  o'erpower. 

Then,  then  I  feel  that  He, 
Remembered  or  forgot, 
The  Lord,  is  never  far  from  me. 
Though  I  perceive  him  not. 


136 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


In  darkness  as  in  light, 
Hidden  alike  from  view, 
I  sleep,  I  wake,  as  in  his  sight 
Who  looks  all  nature  through. 

All  that  I  am,  have  been. 
All  that  I  yet  may  be. 
He  sees  at  once,  as  he  hath  seen, 
And  shall  forever  see. 

"  Forever  with  the  Lord"  : 
Father,  if  't  is  thy  will, 
The  promise  of  that  faithful  word 
Unto  thy  child  fulfil ! 

So,  when  my  latest  breath 
Shall  rend  tlie  veil  in  twain. 
By  death  1  shall  escape  from  death. 
And  life  eternal  gain. 


PRAYER. 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire 

Uttered  or  unexpressed, 
The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 

That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh, 

The  falling  of  a  tear ; 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

Tliat  infant  lips  can  try; 
Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath. 

The  Christian's  native  air ; 
His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death  : 

He  enters  heaven  by  jirayer. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice 

Ketiirniiig  from  his  ways; 
While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice. 

And  say,  "  Behold  he  prays  !" 

0  Thou,  bv  whom  we  come  to  God, 
The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way, 

The  path  of  prayer  thyself  hast  trod  : 
Lord,  teacn  us  how  to  pray  ! 


HELEN  MARIA  WILLIAMS. 

[1762- 1827.] 

WHILST  THEE  I  SEEK. 

Whilst  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power, 

Be  my  vain  wishes  stilled ! 
And  may  this  consecrated  liour 

With  better  hopes  be  filled. 

Thy  love  the  power  of  thought  bestowed  ; 

To  thee  my  thoughts  would  soar : 
Thy  mercy  o'er  my  life  has  flowed, 

'That  mercy  I  adore. 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 

Thy  ruling  hand  I  see  ! 
Each  blessing  to  my  soul  more  dear. 

Because  conferred  by  thee. 

In  every  joy  that  crowns  my  days. 

In  every  pain  I  bear, 
My  heart  shall  find  delight  in  praise. 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  gladness  wings  my  favored  hour. 
Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill ; 

Resigned,  when  storms  of  sorrow  lower. 
My  soul  shall  meet  thy  will. 

My  lifted  eye,  without  a  tear. 
The  gathering  storm  .shall  .see; 

My  steadfast  heart  shall  know  no  fear; 
That  heart  shall  rest  on  thee. 


UNKNOWN. 

THERE  WAS  SILENCE  IN  HEAVEN. 

Can  angel  spirits  need  repose 
In  the  full  sunlight  of  the  sky? 

And  can  the  veil  of  slumber  clo.se 
A  cherub's  bright  and  blazing  eye? 

Have  seraphim  a  weary  brow, 

A  fainting  heart,  an  aching  breast? 

No,  far  too  higli  their  ]>u]s('s  (low 
To  languish  with  inglorious  rest. 

0,  not  the  death-like  calm  of  sleeji 
Could  hush  the  everlasting  song; 

No  fairy  dream  or  slumber  deep 
Entrance  the  rapt  and  holy  throng. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS.  —  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


137 


Yet  not  the  lightest  tone  was  heard 
From  angel  voice  or  angel  hand ; 

And  not  one  plumed  pinion  stirred 
Among  the  pure  and  blissful  band. 

For  there  was  silence  in  the  sky, 
A  joy  not  angel  tongues  could  tell, 

As  from  its  mystic  fount  on  high 
The  peace  of  God  in  stillness  fell. 

0,  what  is  silence  here  below  ? 

The  fruit  of  a  concealed  despair; 
The  pause  of  pain,  the  dream  of  woe ;  — 

It  is  the  rest  of  rapture  there. 

And  to  the  wayworn  pilgrim  here, 

More  kindred  seems  that  perfect  peace, 

Than  the  full  chants  of  joy  to  hear 
Roll  on,  and  never,  never  cease. 

From  earthly  agonies  set  free. 

Tired  with  the  path  too  slowly  trod. 

May  such  a  silence  welcome  me 
Into  the  palace  of  my  God. 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 

[U.  S.  A.,   1767-  1848.] 

TO  A  BEREAVED  MOTHER. 

Sure,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest 

When  infant  innocence  ascends. 
Some  angel,  brighter  than  the  rest. 

The  spotless  spirit's  flight  attends. 
On  wings  of  ecstasy  they  rise, 

Beyond  where  worlds  material  roll, 
Till  some  fair  sister  of  the  skies 

Receives  the  unpolluted  soul. 
That  inextinguishable  beam, 

With  dust  united  at  our  birth. 
Sheds  a  more  dun,  discolored  gleam 

Tlie  more  it  lingers  upon  earth. 

But  when  the  Lord  of  mortal  breath 

Decrees  his  bounty  to  resume, 
And  points  the  silent  shaft  of  death 

Which  speeds  an  infant  to  the  tomb, 
No  passion  fierce,  nor  low  desire. 

Has  quenched  the  radiance  of  the  flame ; 
Back  to  its  God  the  living  fire 

Reverts,  unclouded  as  it  came. 
Fond  mourner  !  be  that  solace  thnie  ! 

Let  Hope  her  healing  cliarm  impart. 
And  soothe,  with  meiodies  divine. 

The  anguish  of  a  inother's  heart. 


0,  think  !  the  darlings  of  thy  love, 

Divested  of  this  earthly  clod, 
Amid  unnumbered  saints,  above, 

Bask  in  the  bosom  of  their  God. 
O'er  thee,  with  looks  of  love,  they  lend ; 

For  thee  the  Lord  of  life  implore  ; 
And  ott  from  sainted  bliss  descend 

Thy  wounded  quiet  to  restore. 
Then  dry, henceforth,  the  bitter  tear; 

Their  part  and  thine  inverted  see. 
Thou  wert  their  guardian  angel  here, 

They  guardian  angels  now  to  thee. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

[1775-1864.] 

LAMENT. 

I  LOVED  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  heisgone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I   checked   him    while   he   spoke ;    yet, 
could  he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 

For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 
And  wearied  all  my  thought 

To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 
My  love,  couhl  he  but  live 

Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and,  when  he 
found 
'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 

He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death  ! 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me  1  but  niinereturns. 

And  this  lorn  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep. 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  n;elted  his  soft  heart :  for 
years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears ! 

"Merciful  God!"    such   was   his  latest 
prayer, 

"These  may  she  never  .share  !" 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Thau  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  thechurch- 
yard  gate. 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  forhim,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  j'ou  be,  • 

And,  0,  pray,  too,  for  nie  ! 


138 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

[1777- 1844  ] 

THE  LAST  MAN. 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adowu  the  gulf  of  time  ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould 
That  shall  creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime  ! 

The  sun's  e3'e  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  earth  with  age  was  wan ; 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man  ! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight,  —  the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands, 

In  plague  and  famine  some  ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread  ; 
And  sliips  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb  ! 


Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood. 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood. 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by. 
Saying.  Weare  twinsin death,  proud  Sun  ! 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'T  is  Mercy  bills  thee  go ; 
For  thou  ten  tliousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  huinan  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 
Aiid  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth 

The  vassals  of  his  will  ? 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 
Tlnni  dim,  discrowned  king  of  day  ; 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  tliat  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 


Oo,  let  oV)livion's  curtain  fall 
Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
•Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 
Life's  tragedy  again  : 


Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe ; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred. 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  glass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Even  1  am  wearj'  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies. 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death,  - 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall, 
The  majesty  of  darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost ! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

Who  gave  its  heavenly  spark  ; 
Yet  think  not.  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark  ! 
No !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine. 

By  him  recalled  to  breath. 
Who  captive  led  captivity. 
Who  robbed  the  grave  of  victorj'. 

And  took  the  sting  from  death  ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste,  — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  earth's  sepulchral  clod. 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality. 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God  ! 


GLENARA. 

0,  HEAi?n  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in 
the  gale. 

Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weep- 
ing and  wail  ? 

'T  is  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his 
dear ; 

And  her  sire,  and  the  })eople,  are  called 
to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and 

shroud ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  followed,  but  moui-ned 

not  aloud : 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


139 


Their  plaids  call  their  tosoms  were  folded 

around ; 
They  niarclu'd  all  in  silence,  — they  looked 

on  the  ground. 

In  silence  they  marched  over  mountain 

and  moor, 
To    a   heath    where    the    oak-tree    grew 

lonely  and  hoar : 
"Now  heie  let  us  place  the  gray  stone 

of  her  cairn : 
AVhy  speak  ye  no  word?"  —  said  Glenara 

the  stern. 

"And  tell  me,  I  charge  you !  ye  clan  of 
my  spouse. 

Why  fold  ye  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye 
your  brows?" 

So  spake  the  rude  chieftain  : — no  answer 
is  made, 

But  each  mantle  unfolding,  a  dagger  dis- 
played. 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her 

shroud," 
Cried    a    voice    from   the   kinsmen,  all 

wrathful  and  loud  ; 
"And  empty  that  shroml  and  that  coffin 

did  seem  : 
Glenara!    Glenara!     now   read   me   my 

dream ! " 

0,  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain, 

I  ween,    • 
When  the  shroud  was  unclosed,  and  no 

lady  was  seen ; 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke 

louder  in  scorn, 
'T  was  the  youth  who  had  loved  the  fair 

Ellen  of  Lorn : 

"I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her 

£;rief, 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous 

chief : 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen   did 

seem ; 
Glenara!     Glenara!    now    read   me   my 

dream  ! " 

In  dust,  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the 

ground. 
And  the  desert  revealed  where  his  lady 

was  found ; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is 

borne, — 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of 

Lorn ! 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  CHIEFTAIN,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "Boatman,  do  not  tariy ! 

And  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  })ound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  I'erry." 

"Now  who  b(i  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?" 

"O,  I  'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

"  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we  've  Hed  together. 

For  should  he  find  us  in  tlie  glen. 
My  blood  would  stain  tlie  li^ather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highlnnd  wight: 
"1  '11  go,  my  chief,  —  1  'm  ready ; 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright. 
But  for  your  winsome  lady ; 

"And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  : 
So,  though  the  waves  are  riiging  white, 

I  '11  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  stoini  grew  I'oud  apace. 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking  ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  eacli  fnce 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  -still,  as  wilder  lilew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  lode  armed  men, — 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

"O,  haste  thee,  haste  !"  the  lady  cries, 
"Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I  '11  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies. 
But  not  an  angiy  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her,  — 
When,  0,  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

Tlie  tempest  gathered  o'er  her  ! 

And  still  they  rowed  nmidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  UUin  reached  that  fatal  shore ; 

Hi.s  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing.    ' 


140 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


For,  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and 
shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover; 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"Comeback!  come  back!"  he  cried  in 
grief, 

"Across  this  stormy  water; 
And  I  'U  forgive  your  Highland  cliief, 

My  daughter! — 0  my  daughter!" 

'T  was  vain  ;  —  the  loud  waves  lashed  the 
shore, 

IJeturn  or  aid  jireventing; 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


HORACE  SMITH. 

[1779- 1849.] 

HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

Day-staus  !    that   ope   your  eyes  with 
morn,  to  twinkle 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  crea- 
tion. 
And  dew-drops  on  her  holy  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation. 

Ye    matin    worshippers !    who,  bending 
lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless 
eye. 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 

Ye  bright  Tnosaics !    that   with    storied 
beauty 
The  floor  oF  nature's  temple  tesselLite, 
AVhat  numerous  emblems  of  instructive 
duty 
Your  forms  create  ! 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell 
that  swiiigeth. 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing 
air. 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the   fields,  and   ever 
ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch 
and  column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 


But   to   that   fane,  most    catholic    and 
solemn, 
Which  God  hath  planned ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  won- 
der, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and 
moon  supply ; 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ 
thunder, 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  .solitude  and  shade  I  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  or  stretched 
upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  I  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  flowers  !  are  living 
preachers, 
Each  cup  a  jailpit,  and   each  leaf  a 
book. 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles  !  that  in  dewy  sjilendor 
"  Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without 
a  crime," 
0,  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime ! 

"Thou  w'ert  not,  Solomon,  in    all    thy 
glory. 
Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "in  robes  like 
ours ; 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !  ah,  how  tran- 
sitory 
Are  human  flowers!" 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly 
Artist, 
With    which   thou   paintest  Nature's 
wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers  !  though  made 
for  pleasure  ; 
Blooming  o'er  Held  and  wave  by  day 
and  night. 
From  every  .source   your   sanction    bids 
me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages !  what  instructors  hoary 
For  such  a  world   of  thought  could 
furnish  scope  ? 


HORACE    SMITH. 


141 


Eacli  fading  calyx  a  memento  ynori. 
Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Posthumous    glories!  angel-like    collec- 
tion ! 
Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in 
earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 
A  second  bii  th. 

Were  I,  O  God !  in  churchless  lands  re- 
maining. 
Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  di- 
vines, 
My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy 
ordaining. 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines ! 


ADDRESS  TO  AN  EGYPTIAN  MUMMY. 

And    thou    hast    walked   about  —  how 
strange  a  story  !  — 
In   Tliebes's   streets,    three   thousand 
years  ago ! 

When  the  Mennionium  was   in    all   its 
glory, 
And   time   had    not    begun    to   over- 
throw 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupen- 
dous. 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous  ! 

Speak !  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted 

dummy ; 
Thou  hast  a  tongue,  — come,  let  us  hear 

its  tune  ! 
Thou  'rt   standing   on    thy   legs,    above 

ground,  mummy ! 
Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  — 
Not    like    thin   ghosts   or   disembodied 

creatures. 
But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs, 

and  features ! 


Tell  us,  —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recol- 
lect, — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's 
fame  ? 
Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 
Of    either    pyramid    that    bears    his 
name  ? 
Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer? 
Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by 
Homer  ? 


Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbid- 
den. 
By  oath,  to  tell  the  inysteries  of  thy 
trade  ; 

Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 
In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise 
played  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a   priest;  if  so,  my 
struggles 

Are  vain,  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its 
juggles ! 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned 
flat, 
Hath    hob-a-nobbed    with    Pharaoh, 
glass  to  glass ; 
Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat ; 
Or  doffed  thine  own,  to  let  Queen  Dido 
pass  ; 
Or  held,  b}'  Solomon's  own  invitation, 
A  torch,   at   the  gieat   temple's  dedica- 
tion ! 

1  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when 
armed. 
Has  any  Eoman  soldier  mauled    and 
knuckled  ; 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  em- 
balmed, 
Ere   Koinulus   and   Remus   had   been 
suckled : 

Antiquity  apjjcars  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  piimeval  lace  was  run. 

Thou  couldst  develop,   if  that  withered 

tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs 

have  seen. 
How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh 

and  young. 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it 

green  ; 
Or   was   it   then  so   old   that   history's 

pages 
Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages? 

Still  silent !  —  hicommunicative  elf! 
Art  sworn  to  secrecy?    TJien  keep  thy 
vows ! 

But,  prithee,  tell  us  something  of  thy- 
self, — 
Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house ; 

Since  in  the  woi-ld  of  spiiits  thou  hast 
slumliered, 

What  hast  thou  seen,  what  strange  ad- 
ventures numbered? 


142 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Since   first    thy   form   was   in   this  box 
extended, 
We    have,  above   ground,  seen   some 
strange  mutations ; 
The  Itonian  Kuipire  lias  begun  and  ended, 
New  worlds  have  risen,  we  have  h)st 
ohl  nations, 
And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been 

humbled, 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has 
.  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy 

head. 
When    the   great   Persian  conqueror, 

Canibyses, 
Marched    armies    o'er    thy   tomb   with 

thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis,  — 
And  shook  the  pyramids  with   fear  and 

wonder. 
When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  con- 
fessed. 
The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold ! 

A    heart    liath    throbbed    beneath    that 
leathern  breast. 
And   tears   adown    that   dusty  cheek 
have  rolled  ; 

Have  (diildren  climbed  those  knees,  and 
kissed  that  face? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and 
race  ? 

Statue'of  flesh  !  Innnortal  of  the  dead ! 
Imperishable  tyi»e  of  evanescence  ! 

Posthumous    man,  —  who    quitt'st    thy 
nari'ow  lied. 
And  standest   undecayed  within   our 
presence ! 

Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till   the  judg- 
ment morning, 

AVhen  the  great  trump  shall  thiill  thee 
with  its  warning ! 

Why   should    this  wortldess   tegument 
endure, 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever? 
0,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and 
pure 
In   living    virtue,  —  that   when    both 
'  must  sever. 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  con- 
sume. 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies   may 
bloom ! 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 

[1781-1849.] 

A  GHOST  AT  NOON. 

The  day  was  dark,  save  when  the  beam 

Of  noon  through  darkness  broke; 
In  gloom  I  sat,  as  in  a  dream, 

Beneath  my  orchard  oak  ; 
Lo  I  splendoi-,  like  a  spirit,  came, 

A  shadow  like  a  tree  ! 
While  there  1  sat,  and  named  her  name 

Who  once  sat  there  with  me. 

I  started  fiom  the  seat  in  fear ; 

I  looked  around  in  awe, 
But  saw  no  beauteous  sjiirit  near. 

Though  all  that  was  1  saw,  — 
The  seat,  the  tree,  where  oft,  in  tears, 

She  mourned  her  hopes  o'erthrown, 
Her  joys  cut  off  in  early  years. 

Like  gathered  flowers  half  blown. 

Again  the  bud  and  breeze  were  met, 

But  Mary  did  not  come  ; 
And  e'en  the  rose,  which  she  had  .set. 

Was  fated  ne'er  to  bloom  ! 
The  thrush  jiroclaimed,  in  accents  sweet, 

That  winter's  reign  was  o'er ; 
The  bluebells  thronged  around  my  feet, 

But  Mary  came  no  more. 


FOREST  WORSHIP. 

Within  the  sunlit  forest. 

Our  roof  the  bright  blue  sky. 
Where  fountains  flow,  and  wild-flowers 
blow, 

We  lift  our  hearts  on  high  : 
Beneath  the  frown  of  wicked  men 

Our  country's  strength  is  bowing; 
But,  thanks  to  Cfod  !  they  can't  ])revent 

The  lone  wild-flowers  from  blowing ! 

High,  high  above  the  tree-tops. 

The  lark  is  soaring  free ; 
Where  streams  the  light  through  broken 
clouds 

His  speckled  breast  I  see  : 
lieneath  the  might  of  wicked  men 

The  ]ioor  ?nan's  worth  is  dying; 
But,  thanked  be  God  !  in  spite  of  them, 

The  lark  still  warbles  flying ! 


EEGINALD    HEBEK. 


143 


The  preacher  prays,  "Lord,  bless  us !" 

"Lord,  bless  us  !"  echo  cries  ; 
"Amen  !"  the  breezes  murmur  low; 

"Amen  !"  the  rill  replies: 
The  ceaseless  toil  of  woe-worn  hearts 

The  proud  with  pangs  are  paying, 
But  here,  0  God  of  earth  and  heaven  ! 

The  humble  heart  is  praying. 

How  softly,  in  the  pauses 

Of  song,  re-echoed  wide. 
The  cushat's  coo,  the  linnet's  lay, 

O'er  rill  and  river  glide  ! 
With  evil  deeds  of  evil  men 

The  atlVigiited  land  is  ringing ; 
But  still,  0  Lord,  the  pious  heart 

And  soul-toned  voice  are  singing ! 

Hush  !  hush  !  the  preacher  jn-eacheth : 

"Woe  to  the  oppressor,  woe  !" 
But  sudden  gloom  o'ercasts  the  sun 

And  saddened  flowers  below  ; 
So  frowns  the  Lord  !  — but,  tyrants,  ye 

Deride  his  indignation. 
And  see  not  in  the  gathered  brow 

Your  days  of  tribulation  ! 

Speak  low,  thou  heaven-paid  teacher ! 

The  tempest  bursts  above  : 
God  whispers  in  the  thunder;  hear 

The  terrors  of  his  love  ! 
On  useful  hands  and  honest  hearts 

The  base  their  wrath  are  wreaking ; 
But,  thanked  Vie  God  !  they  can't  prevent 

The  storm  of  heaven  from  speaking. 


CORN-LAW  HYMN. 

LoRP  !  call  thy  pallid  angel, 

The  tamer  of  the  strong ! 
And  bid  him  whip  with  want  and  woe 

The  champions  of  the  wrong  ! 
0,  say  not  thou  to  ruin's  flood, 

"Up,  sluggard  !  whj^  so  slow?" 
But  alone  let  them  groan, 

The  lowest  of  the  low  ; 
And  basely  beg  the  bread  they  curse. 

Where  millions  curse  them  now ! 

No ;  wake  not  thou  the  giant 
Who  drinks  hot  blood  for  wine, 

And  shouts  unto  the  east  and  west, 
In  thunder-tones  like  thine, 

Till  the  slow  to  move  rush  all  at  once, 
An  avalanche  of  men, 


While  he  raves  over  waves 
That  need  no  whirlwind  then  ; 
Though  slow  to  move,  moved  all  at  once, 
A  sea,  a  sea  of  men  ! 


KEGIMLD  HEBER. 

[1783-1826.] 

IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 

How  fast  would  evening  fail 
In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove. 

Listening  the  nightingale ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side. 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 
How  gayly  would  our  j)innace  glide 

O'er  Gunga's  mimic  sea ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray. 

When,  on  our  deck  I'eclined, 
In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay. 

And  woo  the  cooler  wind.  • 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 

My  twilight  steps  I  guide. 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam 

I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  jiencil  try. 

The  lingering  noon  to  cheer. 
But  miss  thy  kind,  approving  eye. 

Thy  meek,  attentive  ear. 

But  when  of  morn  or  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far. 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on  !  then  on  !  where  duty  leads. 

My  course  lie  onward  still ; 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  meads. 

O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain  ; 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  lioth  awaits 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they 
say. 

Across  the  dark -blue  sea; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee ! 


144 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTUEIES, 


BERNARD  BARTON. 

[1784-1849] 

NOT  OURS  THE  VOWS. 

Not  ours  tlie  vows  of  such  as  plight 
Their  troth  in  sunny  weather, 

While  leaves  are   green,  and   skies   are 
bright. 
To  walk  on  flowers  together. 

But  we  hare  loved  as  those  who  tread 

The  thorny  path  of  sorrow. 
With  clouds  above,  and  cause  to  dread 

Yet  deeper  gloom  to-morrow. 

That  thorny  path,  those  stormy  skies, 
Have  drawn  our  spirits  nearer  ; 

And  rendered  us,  by  sorrow's  ties, 
Each  to  the  other  dearer. 

Love,  born  in  hours  of  joy  and  mirth, 
With  mirtli  and  joy  may  ))erish  ; 

That  to  which  darker  hours  gave  birth 
Still  more  and  more  we  cherish. 

It  looks  beyond  the  clouds  of  time. 
And  through  death's  shadowy  portal; 

Made  by  adversity  sublime. 
By  faith  and  hope  immortal. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 

[1784-1859.] 

AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble 

fright. 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight. 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his 

bowers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who 

have  never 
Been  dead  indeed, — as  we  shall   know 

forever. 
Alas !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About   our    hearths,  angels,  that  are  to 

be, 


Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy 

air,  — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart 

sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  futui-e 

wings. 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

Abou  Bex   Adhem   (may  his  tribe  in- 
crease ! ) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of 

peace, 
And   saw   within  the  moonlight  in  his 

room, 
]\Iaking  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom. 
An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  ; 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem 

bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"  Wiiat  writest  thou?"  The  virion  raised 

its  head. 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord. 
Answered,  "The  names  of  those  wlio  love 

the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.     "Nay, 

not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.    Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  "I  pray  thee, 

then. 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow- 
men.  " 
The  angel  wrote  and  vanished.     The 

next  niglit 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening 

light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God 

had  blessed, 
And,  lo  !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the 

rest. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 

[1785-1842.] 

A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast, — 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 


145 


Away  the  good  ship  flins,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  our  lee. 

0  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  swelling  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  — 
The  white  waves  heaving  high,  uiy  lads. 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free  ; 
The  vvoild  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


THOU  HAST  SWORN  BY  THY  GOD. 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie, 

By  that  pretty  white  hand  o'  thine. 
And  by  a'  tiie  lowing  stars  in  heaven, 

Tiiat  thou  wad  aye  be  mine ; 
And  1  hae  sworn  by  my  God,  my  Jeanie, 

And  by  that  kind  heart  o'  thine, 
By  a'  the  stars  sown  thick  owre  heaven. 

That  thou  shalt  aye  be  mine. 


Then  foul  fa'  the  hands  that  wad  loose 
sie  bands. 

An'  the  heart  that  wad  part  sic  luve ; 
But  there  's  nae  hand  can  loose  my  band, 

But  tlie  finger  o"  God  abuve. 
Though  the  wee,  wee  cot  maun  be  my  bield, 

And  my  claithing  e'er  so  mean, 
I  wad  lap  me  up  rich  i'  the  faulds  o'  luve. 

Heaven's  arinfu'  o'  my  .Jean. 


And  thou  maun  speak  o'  me  to  thy  God, 
And  I  will  speak  o'  thee. 


SHE  'S  GANE  TO  DWALL  IN  HEAVEN. 

She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie. 
She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven  : 

Ye  're  owre  pure,  (pio'  the  voice  o'  God, 
For  dwalling  out  o'  heaven  ! 


O,  what  '11  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie? 

0,  what  '11  she  do  in  heaven? 
She  '11  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi'  angels' 
sangs, 

An'  make  them  mair  meet  for  heaven. 


She  was  beloved  by  a',  my  lassie. 
She  was  beloved  by  a'  ; 

But  an  angel  fell  in  love  wi'  her. 
An'  took  her  frae  us  a'. 


Low  there  thou  lies,  my  lassie. 

Low  there  thou  lies ; 
A  bonnier  form  ne'er  went  to  the  yird. 

Nor  fiae  it  will  arise ! 


Fu'  soon  I  '11  follow  thee,  my  lassie, 
Fu'  soon  1  '11  follow  thee ; 

Thou  left  me  naught  to  covet  ahin', 
But  took  gudeness  sel'  wi'  thee. 


Her  white  arm  wad  be  a  pillow  for  me 

Far  safter  than  the  down  ; 
And  Luv(;  wad  winnow  owre  us  his  kind, 
kind  wings. 

An'  sweetly  I  'd  sleep,  an'  soun'. 
Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  o'  my  luve. 

Come  here,  and  kneel  wi'  me  ! 
The  morn  is  fu'  o'  the  presence  o'  God, 

An'  I  canna  pray  without  thee. 

The  morn-wind  is  sweet  'mang  the  beds 
o'  new  flowers. 
The  wee  birds  sing  kindlie  an'  hie  ; 
Our  gudeman  leans  owre  his  kale-yard 
dyke. 
And  a"  blythe  auld  bodie  is  he. 
The  Beuk  maun  be  taen  when  the  carle 
comes  hame, 
Wi'  the  holie  psalmodie; 
10 


I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  face,  my  lassie, 
I  looked  on  thy  death-cold  fac^e ; 

Thou  seemed  a  lily  new  cut  i'  the  bud, 
An'  fading  in  its  place. 

I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye,  my  lassie, 
I  looked  on  thy  death-shut  eye; 

An'  a  lovelier  light  in  the  brow  of  heaven 
Fell  time  shall  ne'er  destroy. 

Thy  lij^s  were  ruddy  and  calm,  my  las.sip, 
Thy  lips  were  ruddy  and  calm  ; 

But  gane  was  the  holy  bieath  o'  heaven, 
To  sing  the  evening  psalm. 

There's  naught  but  dust  now  mine,  lassie. 
There  's  naught  but  dust  now  mine  ; 

My  saul  's  wi'  thee  i'  the  canld  grave, 
An'  why  should  I  stay  behin' ' 


146 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


JOHN  WILSON. 

[I7SS-1S54.] 

THE  EVENIKG  CLOUD. 

A  CLOUD  lay  ci-acUeJ  near  the  setting  sun, 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braiiled 

snow : 
Long  had  I  watcluHl  the  glory  moving  on 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below. 
Tramiuil  its  spirit   seemed,  and   floated 

slow ! 
P'ven  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest ; 
While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced 

to  blow 
Wafted  the  traveller  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul, 
To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is 

given  ; 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 
Right   onwards  to  the  golden   gates   of 

heaven, 
Where  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 


SIR  JOHN  BOWRIXa. 

[1792 .] 

FROM  THE  RECESSES. 

FitoM  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit 

My  humble  prayer  ascends:  0  Father! 

hear  it. 
Upsoaring  on  the  wings  of  fear  and  meek- 
ness. 
Forgive  its  weakness. 

I  know,  I  feel,  how  mean  and  how  un- 
worthy 
The  trembling  sacrifice  I  pourbefore  thee  ; 
What  can  1  offer  in  thy  presence  holy. 
But  sin  and  folly? 

For  in  thy  sight,  who  every  bosom  view- 

est. 
Cold  are  our  warmest  vows,  and  vain  our 

truest ; 
Thoughts  of  a  hurrying  hour,  our  lips 

repeat  them. 
Our  hearts  forget  them. 


We  see  thy  hand, — it  leads  us,  it  sup- 
ports us ; 

We  hear  thy  voice, — it  counsels  and  it 
courts  us; 

And  then  we  turn  away, — and  still  thy 
kindness 
Foi-gives  our  blindness. 

And  still  thy  rain  descends,  thy  sun  is 
glowing, 

Fruits  ripen  round,  flowers  are  beneath 
us  blowing. 

And,  as  if  man  were  some  deserving  crea- 
ture, 
Joy  covers  nature. 

0,  how  long-sufi'ering,  Lord !    but    thou 

de  lightest 
To  win  with  love  the  wandering;  thou 

invitest. 
By  smiles   of  mercy,  not  by  frowns   or 

terrors, 
JIaii  from  his  errors. 

Who  can  resist  thy  gentle  call,  appeal- 
ing 

To  every  generous  thought  and  grateful 
feeling,  — 

That  voice  paternal,  whispering,  watch- 
ing ever,  — 
My  bosom? — never. 

Father  and  Saviour!   plant  within  this 

bosom 
The   seeds   of  holiness ;   and  bid  them 

blossom 
In  fragrance  and  in  beauty  bright  and 

vernal. 
And  spring  eternal ! 

Then  place   them    in   those   everlasting 

gardens. 
Where  angels  walk,  and  seraphs  are  the 

wardens ; 
Where  every  flower  that  climbs  through 

death's  dark  portal 
Becomes  immortal. 


HYMN. 

Fathek,  thy  paternal  care 

Has  my  guardian  been,  my  guide. 
Every  hallowed  wisli  and  ]irayer 

Has  thy  hand  of  love  supplied. 
Thine  is  eveiy  thought  of  bliss 

Left  by  hours  and  days  gone  by ; 


\ 


SAMUEL   WOODWORTH. 


ANDREWS   NORTON". 


147 


Every  hope  thy  offspring  is, 
Beaming  from  futurity. 

Every  sun  of  splendid  ray, 

Every  moon  that  shines  serene. 
Every  morn  that  welcomes  day, 

Every  evening's  twilight  scene. 
Every  hour  that  wisdem  brings, 

Every  incense  at  thy  shrine,  — 
These,  and  all  life's  holiest  things, 

And  its  fairest,  all  are  thine. 

And  for  all,  my  hymns  shall  rise 

Daily  to  thy  gracious  throne ; 
Thither  let  my  asking  eyes 

Turn  unwearied,  righteous  One  ! 
Thi'ough  life's  strange  vicissitude, 

There  reposing  all  my  care ; 
Trusting  still,  through  ill  and  good, 

Fixed,   and   cheered,    and   counselled 
there. 


SAMUEL  WOODWORTH. 

[U.  S.  A.,   1785-  1842.] 

THE  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of 

my  childhood. 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them 

to  view  ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled 

wild  wood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy 

knew ! — 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill 

that  stood  by  it, 
The  bridge,  and  the  rock   where   the 

cataiact  fell, 
The   cot  of  my  father,  the   dairy-house 

nigh  it, 
And  e'en  the  rade  bucket  that  hung 

in  the  well,  — 
The   old   oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 

bucket, 
The  jnoss-covered  bucket,  which  hung  in 

the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a 
treasure ; 
For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from 
the  field, 


I  found  it  the   source   of  an   exi^uisite 

pleasure, 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature 

can  yield. 
How  ardent  1  seized  it,  with  hands  that 

were  glowing,  ' 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom 

it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  over- 
flowing, 
And   dripping   w-ith  coolness,  it   rose 

from  the  well,  — 
The   old   oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound 

bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the 

well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  brim 

to  receive  it. 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to 

my  lips ! 
Not  a  full,  blushing  goblet  could  tempt 

me  to  leave  it. 
Though   filled  with   the   nectar   that 

Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from   the   loved 

habitation. 
The  tears   of  regret   will   intrusively 

swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  planta- 
tion. 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs 

in  the  well, — 
The   old  oaken  bucket,  the   iron-bound 

bucket. 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  that  hangs  in 

the  well. 


ANDREWS  NORTON. 

[U.  S.  A.,  I7S6-1853.] 

AFTER  A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  briglit 
Yon  pearly  clouds  rey)Osing  lie  ! 

Cloud  above  cloud,  a  gloiious  sight, 
Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky ! 

In  grateful  silence  earth  receives 

The  general  blessing ;  fiesh  and  fair, 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leave.s, 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share.' 

The  softened  sunbeams  pour  around 
A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale; 


148 


SONGS    OF   THEEE    CENTUPJES. 


The  wind  flows  cool ;  the  scented  ground 
Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale. 

Mid  yon  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 
Metliinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 

Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  awhile. 
Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth  ;  from  off  the  scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung; 

And  all  the  wilderness  of  gieen 

With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  Nature, — yet  the  same, — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fanned, 

liUxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came. 

Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own  hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice. 

Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above; 

She  calls  her  t'liildreii  to  rejoice, 

And  round  them  throwsherarmsof  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence  ;  low-born  care. 
And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire. 

Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air, 
And  mid  this  living  light  expire. 


CAROLINE  BOWLES  SOUTHEY. 

[1787-1854.] 

MARINER'S  HYMN. 

Launch  thy  bark,  mai-iner! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee! 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands,  — 

Good  angels  lead  thee  ! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Temt>ests  will  coTiie ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily: 

Christian,  steer  home ! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow. 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now, 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail,  tliere  ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast! 
So  —  let  the  vessel  wear — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"What  of  the  night,  watchman? 

What  of  the  night?" 
"Cloudy  — all  (pu^t  — 


Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant,  — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 

How  !  gains  the  leak  so  fast? 

Clean  out  the  hold,  — 
Hoist  up  t^y  merchandise. 

Heave  out  thy  gold  ; 
There  —  let  the  ingots  go — 

Now  tlie  ship  rights; 
Hurrah  !  the  harbor  's  near — 

Lo  !  the  red  lights  ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island  ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Stiaiglit  for  the  high  land ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on, 

Ctxt  through  the  foam  : 
Christian  !  cast  anchor  now,  — 

Heaven  is  thv  home  ! 


No  land  yet- 


all's  right." 


LAVINIA  STODDARD. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1787- 1820.] 

THE  SOUL'S  DEFIANCE. 

I  SAID  to  Sorrow's  awful  storm 

That  beat  against  my  breast. 
Rage  on,  —  thou  mayst  destroy  this  form, 

x\nd  lay  it  low  at  rest ; 
But  still  th(!  spirit  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  laging  high, 
Undaunted  on  its  fuiy  looks, 

With  steadfast  eye. 

I  said  to  Penury's  meagre  train, 

Come  on,  — your  threats  I  brave; 
My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain. 

And  crush  me  to  the  grave ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures 

Shall  mock  your  force  the  while, 
And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 

With  bitter  smile. 

I  said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

Pass  on, —  I  hewl  you  not; 
Ye  may  pursue  me  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit,  whicli  you  see 

ITndaunted  by  your  wiles, 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  highborn  smiles. 


WILLIAM    KNOX. 


149 


I  said  to  Friendship's  menaced  blow, 

Strike  (lee{i, — my  heart  shall  bear; 
Thou  canst  but  add  one  bitter  woe 

To  those  alread}'  there ; 
Yet  still  the  si)irit  that  sustains 

Til  is  last  severe  distress 
Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 

And  scorn  redress. 

I  said  to  Death's  uplifted  dart. 

Aim  sure,  — O,  why  delay? 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  fearful  heart, 

A  weak,  reluctant  prey  ; 
For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 

Unruffled  by  this  last  dismay. 
Wrapt  in  its  own  eternity, 

Shall  pass  away. 


WILLIAM  KNOX. 

[1789-1825.] 

O,  WHY  SHOULD  THE    SPIRIT   OF 
MORTAL  BE  PROUD? 

0,  WHY  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 

proud  ? 
Like  a  fast-flitting  meteor,  a  fast-flying 

cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the 

wave. 
He  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the 

grave. 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow 

shall  hide. 
Be  scattered  around  and  together  belaid  ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low 

and  the  high. 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall 

lie. 

The  child  that  a  mother  attended   and 

loved. 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  who 

proved, 
The  husband  tliat  mother  and  infant  who 

blessed, — 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwellings  of 

rest. 


And  the  memory  of  those  who  have  loved 

her  and  piaised. 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living 

erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre 

hath  borne. 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre 

hath  worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  th.e 

brave. 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the 

grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to 

reap. 
The    herdsman    wlio    climbed    with    his 

goats  to  the  stee]), 
The  beggar  who  wandered  in  search  of 

his  biead, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we 

tread. 

The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion 

of  lieavcn, 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unfor- 

given, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and 

just. 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the 

dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like    the    flower 

and  the  weed. 
That  witiier  away  to  let  others  succeed  ; 
So  the  tnultitude  comes,  even  those  we 

behold. 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  hath  often  been 

told. 

For  we  are  the  same  things  our  fathers 

have  been ; 
We  see  the  same  sights  that  our  fatheis 

have  seen,  — 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  feel 

the  same  sun. 
And  run  the  same  course  that  our  fathers 

have  run. 


The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers 
would  think ; 

From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  from, 
they  too  would  shrink  ; 
The    maid   on   whose   cheek,  on   whose  ■  To  the  life  we  are  clinging  to,  they  too 


brow,  in  whose  eye. 
Shone    beauty   and   pleasure, 
umphs  are  by ; 


would  cling; 
her   tri-  '  But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird 
I  on  the  winij. 


150 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


They  loved,  but  their  story  we  cannot 
unfold  ; 

They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty 
is  cold ; 

They  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their 
shunbers  will  come ; 

They  joyed,  but  tlie  voice  of  their  glad- 
ness is  dumb. 

They  died,  —  ay !  they  died ;  and  we  things 
that  arc  now, 

Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their 
brow, 

Who  make  in  their  dwellings  a  transient 
abode, 

Meet  the  changes  they  met  on  tlieir  pil- 
grimage road. 

Yea,  hopi'  and  despondence,  and  pleasure 

and  pain. 
Are  mingled  together  in  sunshine  and 

rain  ; 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  the  song  and 

the  dirge. 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon 

surge. 

'T  is  the  twink  of  an  eye,  't  is  the  draught 
of  a  breath, 

From  the  blo.<som  of  health  to  the  pale- 
ness of  death, 

From  th(!  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and 
tlie  shroud,  — 

0,  why  sliould  the  spirit  of  mortal  be 
proud  ? 


PtICHAKD  H.  BARIIAM. 
[1788-1845.] 

THE  JACKDAW  OF  RHEIMS. 

The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair ; 
]5isli()|)  and  abbot  and  prior  were  there ; 

Many  a  monk  and  many  a  friar, 

Many  a  knight  and  many  a  S'|uii'e, 
Withagreat  many  more  of  lesser  degree, — 
In  sootli,  a  goodly  company  ; 
And  tliey  served  tlie  Lord    Primate  on 
bended  kneis 

Never,  I  ween, 

Was  a  ])rouder  seen, 
Eead  of  in  books  or  dreamt  of  in  dreams, 
Tliaii  the  Cardinal   Lord  .\rclilii.shop  of 
liheinis ! 


In  and  out, 

Through  the  motley  rout, 
The  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about; 

Here  and  there, 

Like  a  dog  in  a  fair, 

Over  comfits  and  cates 

And  dishes  and  jilates. 
Cowl  and  cope  and  rocliet  and  pall, 
Mitre  and  crosiei',  he  hopped  upon  all. 

With  a  saucy  air 

He  perched  on  the  chair 
Where,  in  state,  the  great  Lord  Cai-dinal 

sat. 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red 
hat ; 

And  he  peered  in  the  face 

Of  his  Lordship's  Grace, 
With  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  to  say, 
"We  two  are  the  greatest  folks  here  to- 
day ! " 

And  the  priests  with  awe. 

As  sucli  freaks  the\'  saw. 
Said,  "The  Devil  must  be  in  that  little 
Jackdaw !" 

The  feast  Avas  over,  the  board  was  cleared. 
The  flawns  and  the  custards  had  all  dis- 
appeared, 
And  six  little  singing-boys,  —  dear  little 

souls !  — 
In  nice  clean  faces  and  nice  white  stoles, 
Came,  in  order  due, 
Two  by  two. 
Marching  that  grand  refectory  through  ? 
A  nice  little  boy  held  a  golden  ewer. 
Embossed,  and  filled  with  water,  as  pure 
As  any  that  flows  between  Rheims  and 

Namur, 
Which  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to 

catch 
In  afine golden  hand-basin  made  to  Tuatcli. 
Two  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  gi-ovvn, 
Poured    lavender-water   and    eau-de-Co- 
logne ; 
Andanicelittleboyhadanice  cake  of  soap 
Worthyof  washingthehandsof  the  Poj)e  ! 
One  little  boy  more 
A  napkin  bore 
Ofthe  bestwhitediaperfrinired  with  pink. 
And  a  cardinal's  hat  marked  in  jiL'niia- 
nent  ink. 

Thegreat  Lord  Cardinal  turns  at  the  sirr'-t 
Of  these  nice  little  boys  dressed  all  in 
white ; 

From  his  fmger  he  draws 

His  costly  tunpoise : 


RICHARD    H.    BARHAM. 


151 


And,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  Jack- 
daws, 
Deposits  it  straight 
By  the  side  of  his  plate, 

While  the  nice  little  boys  on  his  Emi- 
nence wait ; 

Till,  when   nobody 's   dreaming   of  any 
such  thing, 

That  little  Jackdaw   hops  off  with  the 
ring ! 

There 's  a  cry  and  a  shout, 
And  a  deuce  of  a  rout. 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they  're 

about. 
But  the  monks  have  their   pockets   all 
turned  inside  out ; 
The  friars  are  kneeling. 
And  hunting  and  feeling 
The  carpet,  the  iloor,  and  the  walls,  and 
the  ceiling. 
The  Cardinal  drew 
Otf  each  plum-colored  shoe. 
And  left  his  red  stockings  exposed  to  the 
view ; 
He  peeps,  and  he  feels 
In  tlie  toes  and  the  heels. 
They  turn  up  the  dishes,  —  they  turn  up 

the  plates,  — 
They  take  up  the  poker  and  poke  out  the 
grates,  — 
They  turn  up  the  rugs, 
They  exaniine  the  mugs; 
But,  no  !  —  no  such  thing,  — 
They  can't  find  the  king  ! 
And   the    Abbot   declared  that    "when 

nobody  twigged  it. 
Some  rascal  or  other  had  popped  in  and 
prigged  it !" 

The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look, 
He  called  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his 

book ! 
In  holy  anger  and  pious  grief 
He  solemnly  cursed  that  rascally  thief! 
He  ciirsed  him  at  board,  he  cursed  him 

in  bed ; 
From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown 

of  his  head  ; 
He  cursed  him  in  sleeping,  that  every 

night 
He   should   dream   of   the  Devil,   and 

wake  in  a  flight. 
He   cursed    him  in  eating,  he   cursed 

liim  in  drinking, 
He  cursed  him  in  coughing,  in  sneez- 
ing, in  winking; 


He  cursed  him  in  sitting,  in  standing, 

in  lying; 
He  cursed  him  in  walking,  in  ridintr, 

111  Hying ; 
He  cursed  him  living,  he  cursed  him 
dying!— 
Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse ! 
But  what  gave  rise 
To  no  little  surprise. 
Nobody  seemed  one  penny  the  worse  I 

The  day  was  grne, 
The  night  came  on, 
The  monks  and  the  friars  they  searched 
till  dawn  ; 
When  the  .sacristan  saw, 
On  crumpled  claw, 
Come  limping  a  poor  little  lame  Jackdaw  ! 
No  longer  gay. 
As  on  yesterday ; 
His  feathers  all  seemed  to  be  turned  the 

wrong  way ;  — 
His  pinions  drooi)ed, — he  could  hardly 

stand,  — 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  your 
hand ; 
His  eye  so  dim, 
So  wasted  each  limb, 
That,  heedless  of  grammar,  they  all  cried, 

"That  's  him  ! 
That 's  the  scamp   that   has   done   this 

scandalous  thing, 
That 's  the  thief  that  has  got  my  Lord 
Cardinal's  ring  !" 
Tlie  poor  little  Jackdaw, 
When  the  monks  he  .saw. 
Feebly  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw ; 
And  turned  his  bald  head  as  much  as  to 

say, 
"Fray  be  so  good  as  to  walk  tlus  way  !  " 
Slower  and  slower 
He  limped  on  before. 
Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry 
door, 
Where  the  first  thing  they  saw, 
Midst  the  sticks  and  the  straw, 
Was  the  ring  in  the  nest  of  that  little 
Jackdaw  ! 

Then  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  called  for 

his  book, 
And  off  that  terrible  curse  he  took  ; 
The  mute  expression 
Served  in  lieu  of  confession. 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full  resti- 
tution, 
I  The  Jackdaw  got  plenary  absolution  ! 


152 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


"Wlien  those  words  were  heard 
That  jioor  little  bird 
AVas    so    Llianf^ed    in    a    luoineiit,  't  was 
really  absurd : 
He  grew  sleek  and  fat; 
In  addition  to  that, 
A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a 
mat! 
His  tail  waggled  more 
Even  than  bel'ore ; 
But  no  longer  it  wagged  with  an  impu- 
dent air, 
No  longer  he  perched  on  the  Cardinal's 
chair. 
He  hopi)ed  now  about 
With  a  gait  devout ; 
At  matins,  at  vesi)ers,  he  never  was  out ; 
And,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds, 
He  always  seemed  telling  the  Confessor's 

beads. 
If  any  one  lied,  or  if  any  one  swore. 
Or  slumbered  in  j)rayer-time   and   hap- 
j)ened  to  snore, 
That  good  .jackdaw 
Would  give  a  great  "Caw  I" 
As  much  as  to  say,    "Don't  do  so  any 

more ! " 
While    many  remarked,  as  his  manners 

they  saw, 
That  tliey  "never  had    known    such   a 
pious  Jackdaw  !" 
He  long  lived  the  jiride 
0\'  that  country  side. 
And  at  last  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  died; 
When,  as  words  were  too  faint 
His  merits  to  paint, 
The  Conclave  determini.'d  to  make  him  a 

Saint. 
And  on  newly  made  Saints  and  Popes, 

as  you  know. 
It  's  the  custom  at  Rome  new  names  to 

bestow. 
So  they  canonized  him  l)y  the  name  of 
Jem  Crow  I 


RICHARD   HENRY  WILDE. 

[U.  S.   A.,   1789-  1847] 

MY  LIFE  IS  LIKE  THE  SUMMER  ROSE. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 
That  opens  to  the  morning  sky. 

But  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close 
Is  scattered  on  the  ground —  to  die. 


Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see,  — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf, 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  ])ale  ray ; 
Its  hold  is  frail,  its  date  is  brief; 

Restless,  and  soon  to  ])ass  away ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade. 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree, — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tamjia's  desert  strand; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand  ; 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  etface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race. 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea,  — 

But  none,  alas  !  shall  mourn  for  me ! 


CHARLES  WOLFE. 

[1791-1823.] 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note. 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hunicil ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'erthe  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  hirn  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast. 
Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound 
him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said. 
And  we  .spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  fiice  that 
was  dead. 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  thffmorrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow 
bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 


JOHN   HOWARD    PAYNE.  —  FELICIA   HEMANS. 


153 


That  the  foe  and  the  strar  ger  would  tread 
o'er  his  liead, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  spirit  that 's 

gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him,  — 

But  little  he  '11  U'.ck,  if  they  let  him  sleep 

on 

I  n  the  giave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  liour  for 
retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  tiring. 


Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  held  of  his  fame  fresh  and 
gory; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a 
stone, — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1792-1852.] 

SWEET  HOME. 

Mid  pleasures   and   palaces  thougli  we 

may  roam. 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place 

like  home ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow 

us  here, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er 

met  with  elsewhere. 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
There  's  no  place  like  home  ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in 

vain ! 
0,  give  me   my  lowly  thatched  cottage 

again  ! 
The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my 

call;  — 
0,  give  me  sweet  peace  of  mind,  deai-er 

than  all ! 
Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 
Tliere  's  no  place  like  home  ! 


FELICIA  HEMANS. 

[1794-1835.] 

THE  CHILDE'S  DESTINY. 

No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill, 

No  wizard  gaunt  and  grim. 
Went  up  by  night  to  heath  or  hill 

To  read  the  stars  for  him ; 
The  merriest  girl  in  all  the  land 

Of  vine-encircled  France 
Bestowed  upon  his  brow  and  hand 

Her  philosophic  glance. 
"1  bind  thee  with  a  sjtell,"  said  she, 

"1  sign  thee  with  a  sign  ; 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee, 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine  ! 

"And  trust  me,  't  is  not  that  thy  cheek 

Is  colorless  and  cold, 
Nor  that  thine  eye  is  slow  to  speak 

What  only  eyes  have  told  ;     , 
For  many  a  cheek  of  paler  white 

Hath  blushed  with  passion's  kiss, 
And  many  an  eye  of  lesser  light 

Hath  caught  its  fire  from  bliss: 
Yet  while  the  rivers  seek  the  sea. 

And  while  the  young  stars  shine. 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee, 

No  woman's  heart  be  thijie  ! 

"  And  't  is  not  that  thy  spirit,  awed 

By  beauty's  numbing  spell, 
Slninks  from  the  force  or  from  the  fraud 

Wliich  beauty  loves  so  well ; 
For   thou    hast    learned    to  watch  and 
wake, 

And  swear  by  earth  and  sky. 
And  thou  art  very  bold  to  take 

AVhat  we  must  still  deny  : 
I  cannot  tell ;  the  charm  was  wrought 

By  other  threads  than  mine ; 
The  lips  are  lightly  begged  or  bought, 

The  heart  may  not  be  thine ! 

"Yet  thine  the  brightest  smile  sliall  be 

That  ever  beauty  wore. 
And  confidence  from  two  or  three, 

And  compliments  from  more  ; 
And  one  shall  give,  perchance  hath  given, 

Wiiat  only  is  not  love,  — 
Friendship,  0,  such  as  saints  in  heaven 

Eain  on  us  from  above. 
If  she  shall  meet  thee  in  the  bower, 

Or  name  thee  in  the  shrine, 


154 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


0,  wear   the   ring,  and  guard  the  flow- 
er,— 
Her  heart  may  not  be  thine ! 

"Go,  set  thy  boat  before  the  blast, 

Thy  breast  bef(jre  tlie  gun,  — 
The  haven  shall  be  reached  at  last, 

The  battle  shall  be  won; 
Or  muse  upon  thy  country's  laws. 

Or  strike  thy  country's  lute, 
And  patriot  hands  shall  sound  applause, 

And  lovely  lips  be  mute  : 
Go,  dig  the  diamond  from  the  wave. 

The  treasure  from  the  mine. 
Enjoy  the  wreath,  the  gold,  the  grave,  — 

No  woman's  heart  is  thine ! 

"  I  charm  thee  from  the  agony 

"Which  otliers  feel  or  feign. 
From  anger  and  from  j'ealousy. 

From  doubt  and  from  disdain  ; 
I  bid  thee  wear  the  scorn  of  years 

Upon  the  cheek  of  youth, 
And  curl  the  lip  at  passion's  tears. 

And  shake  the  head  at  truth  : 
"While  there  is  bliss  in  revelry, 

Forgetfulness  in  wine, 
Be  thou  from  woman's  love  as  free 

As  woman  is  from  thine  ! " 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 

0,  ASK  not,  hope  thou  not,  too  much 

Of  syni|)athy  below ; 
Few  are  the  lu'arts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  How  : 
Few — and  by  still  conliictiug  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  foi-  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  tlie  sky 

Where  the  rieh  sunset  burns  ; 
It  may  be  that  the  breath  of  spring. 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  ra[)ture  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring, — 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times, — 

A  sorrowful  deliglit ! 
Tlie  melody  of  distant  rhimes, 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night ; 
The  wind  tliat,  witli  so  mnny  a  tone, 

Some  chord  within  can  thrill,  — 


These  niay  have  language  all  thine  own, 
To  hiia  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not  for  this  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years; 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew, 

The  faithful  to  thy  teais  ! 
If  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  ]iart, 
And   watched  through  sickness  by  thy 
bed, 

Call  his  a  kindred  heart ! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  ])erfect  made. 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend. 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend. 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied. 

Never  to  mortals  given, 
0,  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lilt  them  unto  heaven  ! 


MAEIA  BROOKS. 

[u.  s.  A.,   1795 ->845] 

MARRIAGE. 

The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  formed  a 
soul 
Without  its  own  peculiar  mate,  to  meet 
Its  wandering  half,  when  ripe  to  crown 
the  whole 
Bright  plan  of  bliss,  most  heavenly, 
most  complete ! 
I'ut  thousand  evil  things  there  arc  that 
hate 
To  look  on  happiness ;  these  hurt,  im- 
pede. 
And,  leagued  with  time,  space,  circum- 
stance, and  fate, 
Keej)  kindred  heart  from  heart,  to  pine 
and  pant  and  bleed. 

And  as  the  dove  to  far  Palmyra  flying, 
From  wheie  her  native  founts  of  An- 
tioch  beam, 
Weary,     exhausted,    longing,     panting, 
sighing, 
Lights    sadly   at   the   desert's    bitter 
stream, — 
So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert 
faring. 
Love's  j)ure.  congenial  spring  unfound, 
uiKiuaffed, 


JAMES   G,   PERCIVAL — JOHN   G.    C.    BEAINARD. 


155 


Suffers,  recoils,  —  tlipji,  thirsty  and  de- 
spairing 
Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips 
the  nearest  draught. 


JAMES  G.  PERCIVAL. 

[u.  S.  A.,   1795     1856.] 

MA"». 

I  FEEL  a  newer  life,  in  every  gale ; 

The  winds,  that  fan  the  flowers. 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  till 
the  sail. 
Tell  of  serener  hours,  — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  Llue  throne  of  aii'. 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music 
falls, 
Beauty  is  budding  there ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain. 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves. 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 
A  canopy  of  leaves ; 
And  fiom  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  sjjreads  the  reign  of 
May; 
The  tresses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind 
play ; 
And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 


TO   SENECA  LAKE. 

On  thj^  fair  bosom,  silver  lake. 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 
The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 


And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore. 
As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their 
foam. 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar. 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  miiror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 
Float  round  the  distan  t  moun  tain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 
A  sheet  of  silvei'  spreads  below. 

And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 
Light  clouds,  like  wreaths   of  purest 
snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 
0,  I  could  ever  swee]>  the  oar, 

When  eaily  birds  at  morning  wake, 
And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er ! 


JOHN  G.  C.  BRAINARD. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1796-  1828.] 

THE  FALL  OF  NIAGARA. 

The  thoughts  are   strange   that   crowd 

into  my  brain. 
While  I  look  ujiward  to  thee.     It  would 

seem 
As  if  God  poured  thee  from  his  hollow 

hand. 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thineawfulfront ; 
And    spoke    in    that    loud    voice,  which 

seemed  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's 

sake. 
The   sound  of  many  waters;   and   had 

bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  His  c(;nturies  in  the  eternal 

rocks.  • 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.  And  what 
aj'e  we. 

That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sub- 
lime ? 

0,  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 


156 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thun- 
dering side  ? 

Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 

In  his  .sliort  life,  to  tlij-  unceasing  roar? 

And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to 
■  Him 

Who  drowned  a  world,  and  Iieaped  the 
waters  far 

Above  its  loftiest  mountains?  —  a  light 
wave. 

That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's 


might. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

I  SAW  two  clouds  at  morning 

Tinged  by  the  rising  sun. 
And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on 

And  mingled  into  one ; 
I  thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blessed. 
It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

I  saw  two  summer  currents 

Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 

And  join  their  coursi;,  with  silent  force, 
In  peace  each  other  greeting; 

Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of 
green, 

"While  dimpling  eddies  played  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 
Till  life's  last  ])nlse  shall  beat ; 

Like  summer's  beam,  ami  summer's  stream, 
Float  on,  in  joy,  to  nu'et 

A  calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease,  — 

A  purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 


DANIEL  AVEBSTEPt. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1782-1852.] 

THK  MEMORY  OF  THE  HEART. 

If  stores  of  dry  and  learned  lore  we  gain, 
We  keep  them  in  the    memory   of    the 

.  brain  ; 
Names,  things,  and  facts,  — whate'er  we 

knowle<lge  call, — 
There  is  the  common  ledger  for  them  all ; 
And  images  on  this  cold  surface  traced 
Make   slight   impression,  and   are  soon 
eff'aced. 


But  we  've  a  page,  more  glowing  and  more 

bright. 
On  which  our  friendship  and  our  love  to 

write ; 
That  these  may  never  from  the  soul  depait, 
Wetrustthem  to  the  iTiemory  of  the  heart. 
There  is  nodimming,  noeffacemcnt  there ; 
Each  new  pulsation  keeps  the  record  clear ; 
Warm,  golden  letters  all  the  tablet  fill. 
Nor  lose  their  lustre  till  the  heart  stands 

still. 


JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1795-1820.] 

THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night. 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
AVith  strealdngs  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Flag  of  the  brave,  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triiimph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  diriuned  the  glistening  bnyoiu^t, 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn. 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance. 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
liike  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  ])all, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow. 

And  coweiing  foes  shall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below  ^ 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 
I 

Flag  of  the  seas,  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 


JOHN"   PIERPONT. 


157 


And  fri;:^hted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
i\nd  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  wei-e  boru  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before 
us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er 
us? 


JOHN  riERPONT. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1785 -1866.] 

PASSING  AWAY. 

Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell 

That  eame  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming 
ear. 

Like  the  silver}'  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell 
That  he  winds,  on  the  beech,  so  mellow 
and  clear, 

When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  to- 
gether asleep. 

And  the  Moon  and  the  Fairy  are  watch- 
ing the  deep. 

She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 

And  he  his  notes  as  silvery  quite. 

While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his 
oai'. 

To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the 
shore  ? 

Hark  !  the  notes  on  my  ear  that  play 

Are  set  to  words ;  as  they  float,  they  say, 
"Passing  aNvay  !  passing  away  !" 

But  no  ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on   the  beach,   so  mellow  and 
clear ; 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell, 

Striking  the  hour,  that  filled  my  ear. 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream  ;  yet  was  it  a  cliime 
That  told  of  tlie  flow  of  the  stream  of  time. 
For  a  beautiful   clock  from  the   ceiling 

hung. 
And  a  plump  little  girl,  for  a  pendulum, 

swung 
(As  you '  ve  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 


That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a   canary-bird 

swing) ; 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding 

bouquet. 
And,  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 
"Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

0,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 
Of  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved 

round  slow ; 
And  the  hands,  as  the}'  swept  o'er  the 

dial  of  gold. 
Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo  !  she  had  changed :  in  a  few  short 

hours 
Her  bouquet  had  beeonu',  a  gailand  of 

flowers. 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretched  hands, 

and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  of  womanly 

pride. 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride; 
Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest 

day. 
In  the  same  sweet  voici^  I  heaid  hei'  say, 
"Passing  away  !  passing  away ! " 

While  I  gazed  at  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a 
shade 
Of  thought  or  care  stole  softly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day 
made. 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming 
clover. 
The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its 

flush 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush  ; 
And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light 
on  the  wheels. 
That  marched  so  calmly  round  above 
her. 
Was  a  little  dimmed,  —  as  when  Evening 
steals 
Upon  Noon's  hot  face.     Yet  one  could 
n't  but  love  her. 
For  she  looked  like  a  mother  whose  first 

babe  lay 
Rocked  on  her  breast,  as  sheswungallday  ; 
And  she  seemed,  in  the  same  silver  tone, 
to  say, 
"Passing  away !  passing  away ! " 

While  yet  I  looked,  what  a  change  there 
came ! 
Her  eye  was  quenched,  and  her  cheek 
was  wan ; 


158 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Stooping  and   staffed  was  her  withered 

iVanie, 
Yet  just  as  busil\'  swung  slie  (in  ; 
The  garhuid  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust; 
Tlie  wheels  above  Iku-  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnished,  but  on  they 

kejit, 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shrivelled  lips  of  the  toothless 

crone 
(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 
The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay), 
"Passing  away !  passing  away  ! " 


TO  CONGRESS. 

A  WORD   FROM   A   PETITIONER,  1837. 

What!  ourpetitionsspurned  !  The  prayer 
Of  tliousands  —  tens  of  thousands  — 
cast, 
Unheard,  beneath  your  Speaker's  chair ! 

But  ye  will  hear  us,  first  or  last. 
The  thousands  that  last  year  ye  scorned 
Are    millions    now.      Be   warned !      Be 
warned ! 

"The  ox  that  treadeth  out  the  com 
Thou  shalt  not  muzzle."  —  Thus  saith 
God. 

And  will  ye  muzzle  the  free-born,  — 
The  man,  —  the  owner  of  the  sod, — ■ 

Who  "gives  the  grazing  ox  his  meat," 

And  you  —  his  servants  here — your  seat? 

There  's  a  cloud,  blackening  up  the  sky  ! 

East,    west,    and    north    its    curtain 
spreads ; 
Lift  to  its  muttering  folds  your  eye ! 

Beware  !  for  bursting  on  your  heads. 
It  hath  a  force  to  bear  you  down ;  — 
'Tis  an  insulted  people's  frown. 

Ye  may  have  heard  of  the  Soultan, 
And  how  liis  Janissaries  fell ! 

Their  barracks,  near  the  Atnieidan, 
He  barred,  and  fired  ;  and  their  death- 
y.dl 

Went  to  the  stars,  and  their  blood  ran 

In  brooks  across  the  Atmeidan. 

The  despot  spake;  and,  in  one'night. 
The  deed  was  done.     He  wields,  alone, 

The  sceptre  of  the  Ottoniite, 

And  brooks  no  brother  near  his  throne. 


Even  now,  the  bow-string,  at  his  heck,  , 
Goes  round  his  mightiest  subjects'  neck ; 

Yet  will  he,  in  his  saddle,  stoop — 
I  've  seen  him,  in  his  pala 'e-yard  — 

To  take  petitions  from  a  troop 

Of  women,  who,  behind  liis  guard, 

Come  up,  their  several  suits  to  press, 

To  state  their  wrongs,  and  ask  redress. 

And  these,  into  his  house  of  prayer, 
I  've  seen  him  take ;  and,  as  he  spreads 

His  own  before  his  IL.ker  there. 

These   women's   piayers  he   hears   or 
reads ; — 

For,  while  he  wears  the  diadem, 

He  is  instead  of  God  to  them. 


And  this  he  must  do.     He  may  grant, 
Or  may  denj^ ;  but  hear  he  must. 

Were  his  Seven  Towers  all  adamant, 
They'd  soon  be  levelled  with  the  dust. 

And  "public  feeling"make  short  woilc  — 

Shouldhe  not  hear  them — with  the  Turk. 

Nay,  start  not  from  your  chairs,  in  dread 
Of  cannon-shot  or  bursting  shell ! 

These  shall  not  fall  upon  your  head, 
As  once  upon  your  house  they  fell. 

We  have  a  wea])on,  firmer  set 

And  better  than  the  ba3-onet,  — 

A  weapon  that  comes  down  as  still 
As  snow-flakes  fall  u])on  the  sod, 

But  executes  a  freeman's  will 

As  lightning  does  tin;  will  of  God  ; 

And  from  its  force  nor  doors  nor  locks 

Can  shield  you; — 'tis  the  ballot-box. 

Black  as  your  deed  shall  be  the  balls 
That  from  that  box  shall  pour  like  hail ! 

Ancl  when  the  storm  upon  you  falls. 
How  will  your  craven  cheeks  turn  pale  ! 

For,  at  its  coming  tliough  ye  laugh, 

'T  will  sweep  you  from  your  hall,  like 
chaff. 


Not  women,  now,  —  the  people  pray. 

Hear  us,  —  or  from  us  ye  will  hear ! 
Beware  !  —  a  desperate  game  ye  play  ! 

The  men  that  thicken  in  your  rear — 
Kingsthough  ye  be  —  maynot  bescorneil. 
Look  to  your  move  !  your  stake!    Ye 'ke 

WAUNED. 


WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL. 


159 


WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 

[1798-1S35J 

JEANIE   MORRISON. 

I  'VE  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way; 
But.  never,  never  can  forget 

The  hive  o'  Ufe's  young  day  ! 
Tlie  tire  that  's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  he  bhiek  gin  Yule; 
But  blae.ker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cool. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  lUng  their  shadows  ower  my  path. 
And  lilind  my  een  wi'  tears : 

They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears. 
And  sair  and  sick  I  pine. 

As  memory  idly  summons  up 
The  blithe  blinks  0'  langsyne. 

'T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time — sad  time!   twa   bairns   at 
scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'T  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones  and   looks  and   smiles  were 
shed, 

Kemembered  evermair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet. 
When  sitting  on  tlnit  bink. 

Cheek  touchin'  (dieek,  loof  locked  in  loof. 
What  our  wee  heads  could  think  ? 

When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 
Wi'  ae  l)uik  on  our  knee, 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

0,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  onr  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame. 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans  laughin'  said. 

We  cleeked  thegither  hame? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays 

(The  scuie  then  skail't  at  noon) 
When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes,  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea. 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thoc'nts  rush  back 

0'  scule-time  and  0'  thee. 


0  mornin'  life  !  0  mornin'  luve ! 

0  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 

When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 
Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang ! 

0,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun. 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood, 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood. 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we,  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies  ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trickled  doun  your  cheek. 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak  ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time. 

When  hearts  were  fretsh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  unsung! 

1  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me? 
0,  till  me  gin  their  inusic  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
0,  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne? 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

1  've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 

But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near. 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  I'ins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Since  we  were  sindered  young, 

1  've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness. 

And  happy  could  I  die. 
Did  1  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

0'  bygane  days  and  me  ! 


160 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


THOMAS  HOOD. 
[1798- 1845.] 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

"With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread,  — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty;  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt ! " 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work  — work  —  work. 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It  s,  oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  THIS  is  Christian  work  ! 

"  Work  —work— work  I 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 
Work  — work  —  work. 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band ; 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam  ; 
Till  over  the  buttons  1  fall  asleep. 

And  sew  them  on  in  my  dream! 

"0  men  with  sisters  dear! 

0  men  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch — stitch  —  stitch, 
.     In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  SHROUD  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  death, 

Tiiat  i)hantom  of  grisly  bone? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible"  shape. 

It  seems  so  like  my  own! 
It  seems  so  like  my  own 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep ; 
0  Prod  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  Idood  so  cheap ! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?   A  hed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags  : 
A  shattered  roof —and  this  naked  floor 

A  table  —  a  broken  chuir  — 


And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there  I 

' '  W  ork  —  work  —  work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 
Work  —  work  —  work. 

As  prisoners  work,  for  crime ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam  ; 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band; 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  be- 
numbed. 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand ! 

"Work  —  work— work  ! 

In  the  dull  December  light, 
An d^  woi-k  —  work  —  work 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright : 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  clino-. 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  liacks, 

And  twit  me  with  the  siirinf. 

"0,  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  piimross  sweet, 

With  the  sky  above  my  head. 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet; 

For  only  one  short  hour 
^  To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want. 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"0,  but  for  one  short  hour, — 

A  respite,  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop!^  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !" 


With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwonuiuly  rac-s. 

Plying  her  needle  aTid  thread,— 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  iioverty,  hunger,  ami  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  piteh- 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  tlie  rich' - 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 


MORNING  MEDITATIONS. 

Lkt    Taylor    preach,  upon    a    morning 

breezy. 
How  well  to  rise  while  nights  and  larks 

are  flying,  — 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


161 


For  my  part,  getting  up  seems  not  so  easy 
By  halt  as  lying. 

What  if  the  htrk  does  carol  in  the  sky, 
Soaring  beyond  the  sight   to   lind   him 

out,  — 
Wherefore  am  I  to  rise  at  such  a  tly  ? 
1  'm  not  a  trout. 

Talk  nottome  of  bees  and  such-likehums, 
The  smell  of  sweet  herbs  at  the  morning 

prime,  — 
Only  lie  long  enough,  and  bed  becomes 
A  bed  of  time. 

To   me   Dan    Phcebus   and   his  car  are 

naught, 
His  steeds  that  paw  impatiently  about,  — 
Let  them  enjoy,  say  I,  as  horses  ought. 
The  lirst  tarn-out ! 


Eight  beautiful  the  dewy  meads  appear 
Besprinkled  by  the  rosy-fingered  girl ; 
What  then, — if  I  prefer  my  pillow-beer 
To  early  pearl  ? 

My  stomach  is  not  ruled  by  other  men's. 
And,  grumbling   for  a   reason,  quaintly 

begs 
Wherefore  should  master  rise  before  the 

hens 
Have  laid  their  eggs  ? 

Wh}'  from  a  comfortable  pillow  start 
To  see  faint  flushes  in  the  east  awaken  ? 
A  fig,  say  I,  for  any  streaky  part, 
Excepting  bacon. 

An  early  riser  Mr.  Gray  has  drawn, 
Who  used  to  haste  the  dewy  grass  among, 
"To    meet   the   sun   upon   the   upland 
lawn,"  — 
Well,  —  he  died  young. 

With  charwomen  such  early  hours  agree, 
And  sweeps  that  earn  betimes  their  bit 

and  sup; 
But  I  'm  no  climbing  boy,  and  need  not  be 

All  up, — all  up! 

So  here  I  lie,  my  morning  calls  deferring, 
Till  something  nearer  to  the   stroke   of 

noon ;  — 
A  man  that's  fond  precociously  of  stirring 

Must  be  a  spoon. 


SONG. 

0  Lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 

And  flowery  tapestry  — 
There  's  living  roses  on  the  bu^i, 

And  blossoms  on  the  tree. 
Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 

Some  ramlom  bud  will  meet ; 
Thou  canst  not  tiead  but  thou  wilt  find 

The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 

'T  is  like  the  birthday  of  the  world, 

When  earth  was  born  in  bloom  ; 
The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes. 

The  air  is  all  perfume  ; 
There  's   crimson   buds,  and    white   and 
blue  — 

The  verj'  rainbow  showers 
Have  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 

And  sown  the  earth'with  llowers. 

There  's  fairy  tulips  in  the  east, — 

The  garden  of  the  sun  ; 
The  very  streams  refiect  the  hues, 

And  blossom  as  they  run  ; 
While  morn  opes  like  a  crimson  rose, 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers: 
Then,  lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 

Thou  twinest  into  Howers. 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn. 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  n;aiiy  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  Hush 
Deeply  lipened;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born. 
Like  red  pojipies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tiesses  fell, — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
Rut  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ;  — 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said.  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come. 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


162 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


W.  B.  0.  PEABODY. 

[U.  S.  A.,   1799-  1848.] 

HYMN  OF  NATURE. 

Gon  of  the  earth's  extended  plains  ! 
The  dark  <j:reen  fields  eontented  lie ; 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 
Where  ma  11  might  eonunnne  with  the  sky  ; 
The  taU  cliff  e'hallenges  the  storm 
That  lowers  npon  the  vale  below. 
Where    shaded    fountains     send     their 

sti'eams, 
With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

Ood  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep ! 
Tiie  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trunipet  of  the  storm 
Hath    summoned   up    their   thundering 

bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 
Or  huri-y,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas. 
Till,  calmed  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 
Serenely  breathes.  Depart  in  peace. 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade  ! 
The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale. 
Lifts  up  admiiing  eyes  to  thee ; 
Hut  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 
When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 
And  tight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air  ! 
Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow. 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might, 
The  tierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow  ; 
All—  from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh. 
That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  ilower. 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry  — 
Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky  ! 
How  gloriously  above  us  spiings 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 
Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings. 
Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through ; 
Kach  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  jiurph-  radiance,  gives 
The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above ! 
Thy  Tiame  is  written  eleai-ly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  lilaze, 
Or  evening's  golden  sliower  of  light. 


For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun. 
And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 
Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world  !  the  hour  must  come. 
And  nature's  self  to  dust  return  ! 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay, 
Her  incense  tires  shall  cease  to  burn  ! 
liut  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 
Have  made  man's  warmest  j)raises  flow ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 
The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


W.  A.  MUHLENBERG. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

I  WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAT. 

I  WOULD  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to 

stay  .        ,    ,      , 

Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o  er 

the  way ; 
Where,  seeking    for   rest,  I    but   hover 

around 
Like  the  patriarch's  bird,  and  no  resting 

is  found ; 
Where  hope,  when  she  paints  her  gay 

bow  in  the  air, 
Leaves  her  brilliance  to  fade  in  the  night 

of  desjjair. 
And  joy's  fleeting  angel  ne'er  sheds  a  glad 

ray, 
Save  the  gleam  of  the  jilumage  that  bears 

hiin  away. 

I  would  not  live  alway,  thus  fettered  by 
sin. 

Temptation  without,  and  corruption" 
within ; 

In  a  moment  of  strength,  if  I  sever  the 
chain. 

Scarce  the  victory  is  mine  ere  I  'm  cap- 
tive again. 

E'en  the  rapture  of  pardon  is  mingled 
with  fears, 

And  the  cujt  of  thanksgiving  with  peni- 
tent tears. 

The  festival  trump  callsfor  jubilantsongs, 

But  my  spirit  her  own  miserere  prolongs. 

I  would    not   live  alway:    no,  welcome 

the  tomb ; 
Immortality's   lamp  burns  there  bright 

mid  the  gloom. 


LADY   BUFFERING — WINTHROP   MACKWORTII   PRAED. 


163 


There,  too,  is   tlie   pillow  where  Christ 

bowed  Ills  lie;id  ; 
O,  soft  be  iny  slumbers  on  that  lioly  bed  ! 
And  then  the  glad  morn  soon  to  follow 

that  night, 
"When  the  sunrise  of  glory  shall  burst 

on  my  sight. 
And  the  full  matin-song,  as  the  sleepers 

arise 
To   shout    in    the   morning,  shall   peal 

through  the  skies. 

Who,  who  would  live  alway,  away  from 

his  God, 
Away   fiom    yon   heaven,  that   blissful 

abode. 
Where  the  rivers   of  pleasure  flow  o'er 

the  bright  plains. 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns; 
Where  the  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony 

meet. 
Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported 

to  greet. 
While  the  anthems   of  rapture  unceas- 
ingly roll. 
And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of 

the  soul? 

That  heavenly  music !  what  is  it  I  hear? 

The  notes  of  the  harpers  ring  sweet  on 
my  ear ! 

And  see  soft  unfolding  those  portals  of 
gold. 

The  King  all  arrayed  in  his  beauty  behold  ! 

0,  give  me,  0,  give  me  the  wings  of  a  dove  ! 

Let  me  hasten  my  flight  to  those  man- 
sions above : 

Ay !  't  is  now  that  my  soul  on  swift 
pinions  would  soar. 

And  in  ecstasy  bid  earth  adieu  evermore. 


LADY  DUFFERIN. 

[1807-1867.] 

THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

I  'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

AVhere  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  morning  long  ago, 
When  first  you  were  my  bride. 
The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green, 
'And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  higli. 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  JIary, 
And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 


The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary ; 
The  day  's  as  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear. 
And  the  corn  is  green  again. 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  \-our  hand, , 
And  your  warm  breath  on  my  cheek. 
And  1  still  keep  listening  for  the  words 
You  nevermore  may  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 
The  village  church  stands  near, — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary ; 
I  see  the  spire  irom  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  lireak  your  rest. 
Where  I've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to 

sleep. 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends; 

But,  O,  they  love  the  lietter  still 

Tlie  few  our  Father  sends  ! 

And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

5Iy  blessing  and  my  pride; 

There  's  notliing  left  to  care  for  now. 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

I  'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell. 

My  Mary  kind  and  true, 

13ut  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  1  'm  going  to. 

They  say  there  's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there; 

But  I  '11  not  i'orget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  less  fair. 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH 
PRAED. 

[1801-1839.] 

THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL. 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  and  witty ; 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes. 

Or  yawned  o'er  this  infernal  Chitt}', — 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-jiiece  and  filly ; 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 


I  saw  her  at  a  county  ball  ; 

There,  when  the  sound  of  flute  and  fiddle 


164 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


(lave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hanils  arross  and  down  the  middle, 

Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Ofall  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing  : 

She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 
And  when  she  danced — 0  Heaven,  her 
dancing ! 

Dark  was  her  hair;  her  hand  was  white; 

Her  voice  was  exi|uisitely  tender ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  li(iuiil  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender  ; 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows  : 
I  thought  't  was  Venus  from  her  isle, 

I  wondered  where  she  'd  left  her  spar- 
rows. 

She  talked  of  politics  or  prayers. 

Of  Southey's  prose   or  Wordsworth's 
sonnets. 
Of  daggers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles  or  the  last  new  bonnets ; 
By  candledight,  at  twelve  o'clock. 

To  me  it  mattered  not  a  tittle, 
H'  tl)osi'  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

1  might  iiave  thought  they  murmured 
Little. 

Througli  sunny  ]\Iay,  through  sultry  June, 

1  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wi'ote  them  for  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laughed  ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling. 
My  father  frowned  ;  but  how  should  gout 

Find  any  happiness  in  kneeling? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean, 

Hi(di,  fat,  and  rather  apo])lectic  ; 
Shi!  had  one  brother,  just  thirteen. 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic ; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year. 

Had  fed  the  palish  with  her  bounty ; 
Her  second-cousin  was  a  jieer. 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  tlie  three  per  cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations. 
And  India  l)onds,  and  tithes  and  rents, 

O,  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks. 

Such     wealth,    such     honors,    Cupid 
chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  muses. 


She   sketched;  the  vale,   the  wood,  the 
beach. 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading : 
She  botanized  ;   I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading : 
She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand,  — 

She  made  the  Catalina  jealous  : 
She  touched  the  organ  ;   1  couhl  stand 

For  hours  and    hours  and    blow  the 
bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home. 

Well  filled  with  all    an  album's  glo- 
ries, — 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trinnning,  Peisiau  stoi'ies. 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo. 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  .slaughter. 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo, 

And  recii)es  for  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flattered,  worshipped,  bored  ; 

Her  steps  were  watched,  her  dress  was 
noted ; 
Her  poodle  dog-w'as  quite  adored  ; 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laughed,  — and  every  heart  was  glad, 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolished  ; 
She  I'rowned,  — -and  every  look  was  sad. 

As  if  the  opera  were  demolished. 

She  smiled  on  many  just  for  fun,  — 

1  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it ; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute : 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  .so. 

In  phrase  which  was  divinelymoulded  ; 
She  wrote  a  chaiining  hand,  and  0, 

How  sweetly  all  lier  notes  were  folded ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves,  — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver; 
A  rosebud  anil  a  ]iair  of  gloves. 

And  "Fly  Not  Yet,"  uiwn  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir. 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair. 

The  usual  vows,  — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted,  — months  and  years  rolh^l  by  ; 

We  met  again  four  summei's  aftei-. 
Our  ])arting  was  all  soli  and  sigh, 
I      Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ; 
'  For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  liad  been  many  other  lodgers, 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-i'oom  belle, 
But  only  Mrs.  —  Something —  Rogers. 


WILLIAM   LEGGETT.  —  FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK. 


1G5 


WILLIAM  LEGGETT. 

[U.  S.  A.,   1802-  1839.] 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

The  birds,  when  winter  shades  the  sky, 

Fly  o'er  tlie  seas  away, 
"Where  laughing  isles  in  sunshine  lie, 

And  summer  breezes  play ; 

And  thus  the  friends  that  flutter  near 
While  fortune's  sun  is  warm 

Are  startled  if  a  cloud  apjiear. 
And  lly  before  the  storm. 


But  when  from  winter's  howling  plains 

Each  other  warbler  's  past, 
The  little  snow-bird  still  remains, 

And  chirrups  midst  the  blast. 


Love,  like  that   bird,  when  friendship's 
throng 

With  fortune's  sun  depart, 
Still  lingers  with  its  cheerful  song, 

And  nestles  oir  the  heart. 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY. 

[U.  S.   A.,  1802  -  1828.] 

A  HEALTH. 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveli- 
ness alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming 
paragon ; 

To  whom  the  better  elements  and  kindly 
stars  have  given 

A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air,  't  is  less 
of  earth  than  heaven. 


Her  every  tone  is  music's  own,  like  those 

of  morning  birds. 
And  something  more  than  melody  dwells 

ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they,  and 

from  her  lij)S  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee  forth 

issue  from  the  rose. 


Affections  are  as   thoughts   to   her,  the 

measures  of  her  hours  ; 
Her   feelings    have     the     fragrancy,  the 

freshness  of  young  flowers  ; 
And  lovely  passions,  (dianging  oft,  so  fill 

her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns,  —  the 

idol  of  past  years. 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

a  picture  on  the  brain, 
And   of   her   voice   in  echoing  hearts  a 

sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her  so  very 

much  endears. 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest'  sigh  will 

not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveli- 
ness alone, 

A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming 
paragon. 

Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there 
stood  some  more  of  such  a  frame, 

That  life  might  be  all  poetry,  and  weari- 
ness a  name. 


FITZ  GREENE  HALLECK. 

[U.S.A.,   1795-1S67.] 

BURNS. 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth. 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen. 

And  moved  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strongsense,  deepfeeling,  passions  strong, 
A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 

A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong. 
Of  coward  and  of  slave,  — 

A  kind,  true  heart,  a  sjiirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear  and  would  not  bow, 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Prai.se  to  the  bard  !  his  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower-seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown. 

Where'er  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 


166 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Praise  to  the  man  !  a  nation  stood 
Beside  liis  coffin  witli  wet  eyes, 

Her  brave,  iier  beautiful,  lier  good, 
As  when  a  IovchI  one  dies. 

And  still,  as  on  his  funeral  day, 

Men  stand  his  cold  eaith-coucharound, 

With  the  mute  homage  that  we  pay 
To  consecrated  ground. 

And  oonsecrated  ground  it  is, 

The  last,  the  hallowed  home  of  one 
Who  lives  ni>on  all  memories, 
.    Though  with  the  buried  gone. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgriui  sln-ines. 
Shrines  to  no  eodi;  or  creed  contined,  — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  iieccas  of  the  mind. 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  RED  JACKET, 

CHIEF   OF  THE   TLSCARORAS. 

Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's 
woven. 
First   in    her    files,  her    Pioneer    of 
mind,  — 
A  wanderer   now   in    other   climes,  has 
proven 
His  love  lor  the   young  land  he  left 
behind ; 

And  throned  her  in  the  senate-hall   of 
nations. 
Robed  like  the  deluge  rainbow,  heaven- 
wrought, 
Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 
And  beautiful  as  its  green   world  of 
thought; 

And  faithful    to   the   Act   of  Congress, 
quoted 
As  law  authority,  it  passed  nem.  con.  : 
He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have 
voted. 
The    most    enlightened    people    ever 
known  ; 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 
In   Paris,  full  of  song  and  dance  and 
laugh  ; 
And  that,  from   Orleans  to   the    Bay  of 
Fundy, 
There  's  not  a  bailitf  or  an  epitaph  ; 


And     furthermore  —  in    fifty    years,  or 
sooner, 
We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine ; 
And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a 
schooner. 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembki  to 
the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me.  King  of  Tuscarora  ! 
Gazing,  as  I,  upon  thy  })ortrait  now, 
In  all  its  meilalled,  fringed,  and  beaded 

Its  eye's  dark  beauty,  and  its  thought- 
ful brow,  — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplo- 
matic ; 
Its    eye,    uj)soaring    like    an    eagle's 
wings,  — 
Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Demo- 
cratic, 
Outrival  Europe,  even  in  our  kings ! 

For  thou  wast  monarch  born.    Tradition's 
pages 
Tell  not  the  jdantingof  thy  parent  tree. 
But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for 
ages 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject 
knee.  . 


Thy  name  is  ]>rincely,  —  if  no  poet'smagic 
Could   make    Rki)   Jacket   grace   an 
English  rhyme, 
Though  some  one  with  a  genius  for  the 
tragic 
Hath  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime, 


Yet  it  is  music  in  tlie  language  spoken 
Of  thine  own  land  ;  and  on  her  herald 
roll, 
As  bravely  fought    for,  and  as  proud  a 
token 
As  Cceur  de  Lion's  of  a  warrior's  soul. 


Thy  garb,  —  though  Austria's  bosom-star 
would  frighten 
That  medal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark 
mine. 
And  George  the  Fourth  wore,  at  his  court 
at  lirighton, 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than 
thine; 


FITZ-GREENB  HALLECK. 


1G7 


Yet  'tis  a  Lrave  one,  scorning  wind  and 
weiitliin', 
And  litted  for  thy  couch,  on  field  and 
flood, 
As  Bob  Ro3''s  tartan  for  the  Highland 
heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's   liobin 
Hood. 

Is    strength   a   monarch's   merit,  like  a 
wlialer's  ? 
Thou  art  as    tall,   as   sinewy,   and  as 
strong 
As  earth's  first  kings,  —  the  Argo'sgallant 
sailors. 
Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  beauty? — Thiire  has  with  thy  youth 
departed ; 
But  the  love-legend's  of  thy  manhood's 
years, 
And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken- 
hearted, 
Are —     l>ut  I  rhyme  for   smiles  and 
not  for  tears. 

Is  eloquence?  —  Her  spell  is  thine  that 
reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head 
its  sport; 
And  there  's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in 
thy  speeches, 
The  secret  of  their  mastery,  —  they  are 
short. 

The  monarch  mind,  the  mystery  of  com- 
manding, 
The  birtli-hour  gift,  the  art  Napoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wield- 
ing, banding 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move 
as  one, — 

Thou  hast  it.    At  thy  bidding  men  have 
crowded 
The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrels,  at  their  sepulchres,  have 
shrouded 
With  banner-folds  of  glory  the  dark 
pall. 

Who  will  believe,  —  not   I ;   for  in  de- 
ceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful 
dream : 


I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 
That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they 
seem,  — 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose 
blessing 
Would,  like  the  Patriarch's,  soothe  a 
dying  hour ; 
With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caress- 
ing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit 
bower ; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing 
evil ; 
With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in 
air,  — 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 
That  e'er  clenched  fingers  in  a  captive's 
hair ! 


That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison 
fountain. 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the 
Upas-tree ; 
And   in   thy    wratli,  a    nursing    cat-o'- 
mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared 
Avitli  thee ! 


And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer 
ocean's. 
Its  li]i  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as 
clear. 
Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emo- 
tions, — 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow,  — all 
save  I'ear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy 
daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in 
wars ; 
Hatred  —  of  missionaries  and  cold  water; 
Pride  —  in  thy  rifle-trophiis  and  thy 
scars ; 

Hope  —  that  thy  wrongs  may  be  by  the 
Great  kS[)irit 
Eemembered  and  revenged  when  thou 
art  gone ; 
Sorrow  —  that  none  are  left  thee  to  in- 
herit 
Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and 
thy  throne  1 


168 


SONGS  OF 


THKEE 


CENTURIES. 


WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

SONNET. 

WRITTEN    WHILE     IN     PRISON    FOR    DENOUNCING 
THE   DOMESTIC    SLAVE-TRADE. 

High  walls  and  huge  the  boJ y  may  con- 
fine, 
And  iron  gates  obstruct  the  prisoner's 
gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  bafile  his  desigli, 
And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious 
ways; 
But  scorns  the  immortal  mind  such  base 
control : 
No  chains  can  bind  it  and  no  cell  en- 
close. 
Swifter  than  light  it  flies  from  pole  topple. 
And  in  a  (lash  from  earth  to  heaven  it 
goes. 
It  lea[)s  from  mount  to  mount ;  from  vale 
to  vale 
It  wanders,  plucking   honeyed   fruits 
and  Uowers ; 
It  vi.sits  home  to  hear  the  fiieside  tale 
And  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous 
hours  ; 
'T  is  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 
And  in  its  watches  wearies  every  star. 


JOHN  NEAL. 

[U.   S.   A.] 

AMBITION. 

I  i,0VED  to  hear  the  war-horn  cry, 
Anil  panted  at  the  drum's  deep  roll. 
And  lii-ld  my  breath,  when,  tloatinghigh, 
1  saw  our  starry  banners  tly, 
As,  idia'.lengiiig  the  Iiaughty  sky, 
Tliey  went  like  battle  o'er  my  soul. 
For  I  was  so  ambitious  then, 
1  longed  to  be  the  slave  of  men  ! 

I  stood  and  saw  the  morning  light, 
A  standaid  swaying  far  and  free. 
And  loved  it  like  tiie  coni|Uering  flight 
Of  angels,  floating  wide  and  bright 
Above  the  storm,  aliove  the  fight 
"NVhen^  nations  strove  for  libeity  ; 
And  heard  afar  tlie  signal-cry 
Of  truni])ets  in  the  hollow  sky. 


I  sailed  with  storm  upon  the  deep, 
I  shouted  to  the  eagh'  soaring; 
I  hung  me  lioin  the  rocky  steep 
Wlieu  all  but  spiiits  wei'e  asleep, 
To  feel  the  winds  about  me  sweep, 
And  hear  the  gallant  waters  roaring : 
For  every  sound  and  shape  of  strife 
To  me  was  as  the  breath  of  life. 

But  I  am  strangely  altered  now : 
I  love  no  more  the  bugle's  voice, 
The  rushing  wave,  tlie  plunging  prow, 
The  mountain  with  its  clouded  brow. 
The  thunder  when  the  blue  skies  bow 
And  all  the  sons  of  God  rejoice. 
I  love  to  dream  of  tears  and  sighs, 
And  shadowy  hair,  and  half-shut  eyes ! 


GEORGE  LUNT. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

PILGRIM  SONG. 

Over  the  mountain  wave,  see  where  they 

come ; 
Storm-cloud  and  wintry  wind  welcome 

them  home ; 
Yet,  where  the  sounding  gale  howls  to 

the  sea. 
There  their  .song  peals  along,  deep-toned 

and  fi'ee : 
"Pilgrims  and   wanderers,  hither   we 

come  ; 
Where  the  free  dare  to  be,  — this  is  our 

home." 

England  hath  sunny  dales,  deai-ly  they 

bloom ; 
Scotia   hath   heather-hills,    sweet    their 

perfume  : 
Yet  through  the  wilderness  cheerful  we 

stray. 
Native  land,  native  land,  home  faraway! 
"  Pilgrims  and  wanderers,   hither  we 

come  ; 
Where  the  free  dare  to  be, —  this  is  our 

home !" 

Dim  grew  the  forest-path  :  onward  they 

trod  ; 
Firm  beat  their  noble  hearts,  trusting  in 

God ! 
Gray  men  and  blooming  maids,  high  rose 

their  song ; 


CHARLES    SPRAGUE.  —  HENRY   SCOTT    RIDDELL. 


1G9 


Hear  it  sweep,  clear  and  deep,  ever  along: 
"  Pilgrims  and  wanderers,   hither  we 

come ; 
Where  the  free  dare  to  be,—  this  is  our 

home  !  " 

Not  theirs  the  glory -wreath,  torn  by  the 

blast ; 
Heavenward  their  holy  steps,  heavenward 

they  past. 
Green  be  their  mossy  graves  !    ours   be 

their  fame. 
While  tlicir  song  peals   along   ever  the 

same ; 
"Pilgrims  and  wanderers,  hither  we 

come ; 
Where  the  free  dare  to  be, —  this  is  our 

home!" 


CHAPiLES   SPRAGUE. 

[u.  S.  A.,1791-  1874.] 

THE  FAMILY  MEETING. 

Wk  are  all  here, 

Father,  mother, 

Sister,  brother. 
All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filled ;  we  're  all  at  home ! 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come. 
It  is  not  often  tlius  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we  're  found. 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot ; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot ; 
Let  gentle  peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  affection  rule  the  hour. 

We  're  all  —  all  here. 

We  're  not  all  here  ! 
Some  are  away,  —  the  dead  ones  dear, 
Who  thronged  with  us  thisancientliearth, 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guileless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 
Looked  in,  and  thinned  our  little  band; 
Some  like  a  night-flash  passed  away. 
And  some  sank  lingering  day  by  <lay  ; 
The  quiet  graveyard, —  some  lie  there, — 
And  cruel  ocean  has  his  share. 

We  're  not  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  ! 
Even  they,  — the  dead,  — though  dead,  so 

dear,  — 
Fond  memory,  to  her  duty  true, 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 


How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well-remembered  face  appears  ! 
We  see  them,  as  in  times  long  })ast ; 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast ; 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold; 
They  're  round  us,  as  they  were  of  old. 
We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here, 

Father,  mother. 

Sister,  brother, 
You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead, 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
0,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below  ; 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this. 
May  each  repeat  in  words  of  bliss. 

We  're  all  —  all  here  ! 


HEMY  SCOTT  RIDDELL. 

OUR  MARY. 

OiiR  Mary  liket  weel  to  stray 
Where  clear  the  burn  was  rowin' ; 
And  troth  she  was,  though  I  say  sae, 
As  fair  as  aught  ere  made  o'  clay, 
And  pure  as  ony  gowan. 

And  happy,  too,  as  ony  lark 

The  claud  might  ever  carry ; 

She  shunned  the  ill  and  sought  the  good, 

E'en  niair  than  weel  was  understood; 

And  a'  fouk  liket  Mary. 

But  she  fell  sick  wi'  some  deca)'. 
When  she  was  but  eleven  ; 
And  as  she  pined  frae  day  to  day. 
We  grudged  to  see  her  gaun  away, 
Though  slie  was  gaun  to  Heaven. 

There  's  fears  for  them  that 's  far  awa' 

And  fykes  for  them  are  flitting ; 

But  fears  and  cares,  baith  grit  and  sma'. 

We  by  and  by  o'er-pit  them  a' ; 

But  death  there  's  nae  o'er-pitting. 

And  nature's  ties  are  hard  to  break, 
When  thus  they  maun  be  broken; 


170 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


And  e'en  the  form  we  loved  to  see, 
AVi'  carina  lang,  dear  though  it  be, 
rreserve  it  a.-s  u  token. 

But  Mary  had  a  gentle  heart, 
Heaven  did  as  gently  free  lier  ; 
Yet  lang  afore  .•^Iie  reached  that  part, 
Dear  sir,  it  wad  ha'e  made  ye  start 
Had  ye  been  tlicre  to  see  her. 

S;ie  changed,  and  yet  sae  sweet  and  fair. 
And  growing  meek  and  meeker, 
Wi'  her  hnig  locks  o'  yellow  hair. 
She  wore  a  little  angel's  air, 
Ere  angels  cam'  to  seek  her. 

And  when  she  eouldna  stray  out  b}', 
The  wee  wild  flowers  to  gather. 
She  oft  her  household  plays  wad  try. 
To  hide  her  illness  frae  our  eye, 
Lest  she  should  grieve  us  farther. 

But  ilka  thing  we  said  or  did 
Aye  pleased  the  sw.'ct  wee  creature  ; 
Indeed,  ye  wad  ha'e  thought  she  had 
A  something  in  her  made  her  glad 
Ayont  the  course  o'  nature. 

But  death's  cauld  hour  cam'  on  at  last. 

As  it  to  a'  is  comin' ; 

And  may  it  be,  whene'er  it  fa's, 

Nae  waur  to  others  than  it  was 

To  Mary,  sweet  wee  woman  ! 


SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged  ; 

'tis  at  a  wliite  heat  now : 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  llames  decreased, 

though  on  the  foige's  brow 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  jday  through 

the  sable  mound  ; 
And  fitfully  you  still   may  see  the  grim 

smiths  ranking  round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad 

hanils  only  bare ; 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some 

work  the  windlass  there. 

The  winillass  strains  the  tackle-cdiains, 
th(!  blaek  mmmd  heaves  below; 

And,  red  and  deep,  a  liundred  veins  burst 
out  at  eve  IV  throe  : 


It  rises,  roars,  rends   all  outright,  —  0. 

Vulcan,  what  a  glow  ! 
'T  is  blinding  white,  't  is  blasting  bright ; 

the  high  sun  shines  not  so ! 
The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such 

fiery,  fearful  show,  — 
The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  caiident  hearth, 

the  I'uddy,  lurid  row 
Of  smiths,  that  stand,  an  ardent  band, 

like  men  before  the  foe  ; 
As,  ipiiveiing  through  his  fleece  of  flame, 

tlic  sailing  monster  slow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil,  —  all  about  the  (aces 

fiery  grow,  — 
"Hurrah!"  they  shout,  "leap  out,  leap 

out"  ;  bang,  bang,  the  sledges  go: 
Hurrah  !  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing 

high  and  low ; 
A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  everj^ 

s(piashing  blow ; 
The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail ;  the 

rattling  cinders  strew 
The  ground  around ;  at  every  bound  the 

sweltering  fountains  flow  ; 
And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd, 

at  every  stroke,  pant  "Ho!" 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters ;  leap  out 

and  lay  on  load  ! 
Let's  forge  a  goodly  anchor;  a   bower, 

thick  and  broad : 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every 

blow,  I  bode. 
And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding  all  in  a 

perilous  road ; 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lea ;  the  roll 

of  ocean  jjoured 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea;  the 

mainmast  by  the  board; 
The  bulwarks  down;  the  rudder  gone; 

the  boats  stove  at  the  chains ; 
But   courage   still,  brave  mariners,  the  • 

bower  yet  reinairis, 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns  save 

when  ye  pitch  sky-high. 
Then  moves  liis  head,  as  though  he  said, 

"Fear  nothing,  — heie  am  I  I" 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order;  let  foot 

and  lian<l  keeji  time. 
Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than 

any  steeple's  chime: 
But  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing ; 

and  let  the  bunh^n  be. 
The  Anclior  is  the  Anvil  King,  and  royal 

craftsmen  we ! 


FRANCIS   MAHONY   (FATHER   PROUT), 


171 


Strike  in,  strike  in,  —  tlie  sparks  begin  to 

dull  their  rustling  red  ; 
Our  liannners  ling  with  sharper  din,  our 

work  will  soon  be  sped  : 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of 

Hery  rich  array 
For  a  haniniock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or 

an  oozy  couch  of  clay  ; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of 

merry  craftsmen  here, 
Fortheyeo-heave-ho,  arid  the  heave-away, 

and  the,  sighing  seamen's  cheer, 
When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go  far, 

far  from  love  and  home, 
And  sobl)ing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail 

o'er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens 

down  at  last; 
A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong  as  e'er 

from  cat  was  cast. 
0  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou 

hadst  life  like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward 

beneath  the  deep  green  sea  ! 
0  deep  sea-diver,  who  miglit  then  behold 

such  sights  as  thou  ? 
The  hoary  mon&ters'  palaces !  methinks 

what  joy  't  were  now 
To  go  plumb  iilunging  down  amid  the 

assembly  of  the  whales, 
And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil 

beneath  theii-  scourging  tails  ! 
Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the 

fierce  sea  unicorn, 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back, 

for  all  his  ivory  iiorn  ; 
To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-hsh  of  bony 

blade  forlorn  ; 
And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark  to 

laugh  his  jaws  to  scorn  ; 
To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where 

mid  "Norwegian  isles 
He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden 

sliallowed  miles, 
Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano, 

off  he  rolls  ; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-bufi'eting  the  far- 
astonished  shoals 
Of  his  Ijack-browsing  ocean  calves ;  or, 

haply  in  a  cove, 
Shell-strewn,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some 

Undine's  love, 
To  find  the  long-haired  niermaidens;  or, 

hard  by  icy  lands. 
To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent  upon  ceru- 
lean sands. 


0  broad-armed  fi.sher  of  the  deep,  whose 

sports  can  equal  thine  ? 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  tliousand  tons  that 

tugs  thy  cable  line  ; 
And  night  by  night  't  is  thy  delight,  thy 

glory  day  by  day. 
Through  sable  sea  and  bleaker  white,  the 

giant  game  to  play ; 
But,  shamer  of  our  little  sports  !  forgive 

the  name  1  gave, — 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy,  thine  oflace  is 

to  save. 
O  lodger  in  the  sea-king's  halls,  couldst 

thou  but  understand 
AVhose  be  the  white  bon.es  by  thy  side, 

or  who  that  diipping  band. 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  waves  that 

round  about  thee  bend. 
With    sounds  like  breakers  in   a  dream 

blessing  their  ancient  friend  : 
0,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide 

with  larger  steps  round  thee. 
Thine  ii'on  side  would  swell  with  prid'e ; 

thou  'dst  leap  within  the  sea  ! 
Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the 

pleasant  strand 
To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love 

of  fatherland. 
Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and 

grassy  churchyard  grave 
So  freely  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  toss- 
ing wave ; 
0,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I 

have  fondly  sung. 
Honor  him  for  their  memory,  whose  bones 

he  goes  among ! 


FRANCIS  MAHONY  (FATHER 
'  PROUT). 

[1805-1865.1 

THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON. 

With  deep  affection 

And  recollection, 

I  often  think  of 

The  Shandon  bells, 

Whose  sounds  so  wild  woifld 

In  days  of  childhood 

Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder, 

^\'hele'er  1  wander. 


172 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


And  thus  grow  fonder, 
Sweet  Cork,  of  thee; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  ehiining 
Full  many  a  elinie  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 
Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate; 
But  all  thi'ir  music 
Spoke  naught  like  thine; 
For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  jiroud  swelling 
Of  thy  l)elfry,  knelling 
Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in. 
Their  tii under  rolling 
From  the  Vatican ; 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  tilt"  gori^eous  turrets 
Of  Notie  Dame: 
But  thy  sounds  wei'e  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 
Pealing  solemnly. 
O,  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  gi'and  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee  ! 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow; 

While  on  tower  and  kiosk  0 

In  St.  Sojihia 

The  Turkman  gets, 

And  loud  in  air 

Calls  men  to  prayer, 

P'rom  the  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  em[ity  jihantom 

I  freely  grant  them  ; 

P>ut  there  's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me,  — 

'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 

The  ))leasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


NATHANIEL  TAPiKER  WILLIS. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1S07-  1867.] 

UNSEEN  SPIRITS. 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway,  — 
'T  was  near  the  twilight  tide, — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walked  she ;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walked  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charmed  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 
And  Honor  charmed  the  air. 

And  all  astir  looked  kind  on  her, 
And  called  her  good  as  fair  ; 

For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 
She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  w4th  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true  ;  ' 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo : 

But  honored  w'ell  are  charms  to  sell. 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair,  — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-[)ale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  eomyiany 

To  make  the  spirit  quail : 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walked  for- 
lorn. 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air. 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way! 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven, 
By  man  is  cursed  alway. 


FROM  MELANIE. 

A  CALM  and  lovely  paradise 

Is  Italy,  for  minds  at  ease; 
The  sa<lness  of  its  sunny  skies 

Weighs  not  upon  the  lives  of  these. 
The  ruined  aisle,  the  crumbling  fane. 

The  broken  columns  vast  and  prone, 
It  may  be  joy,  it  may  be  pain. 

Amid  su<;h  wrecks  to  walk  alone. 
The  saddest  man  will  sadder  be. 

The  gentlest  lover  gentler  there,  — 


CAROLINE   ELIZABETH    NORTON. 


173 


As  if,  whate'er  the  spirit's  key, 

It  streugtlieued  in  that  solemn  air. 

The  heart  soon  grows  to  mournful  things ; 

And  Italy  has  not  a  breeze 
But  comes  on  melancholy  wings ; 

And  even  her  majestic  trees 
Stand  ghostlike  in  the  r.esars'  home, 

As  if  their  conscious  roots  were  set 
In  the  old  graves  of  giant  Kome, 

And  drew  their  saj)  all  kingly  yet ! 
And  every  stone  your  feet  beneath 

Is  broken  from  some  mighty  thought; 
And  sculptures  in  the  dust  still  breathe 

The  fire  with  which  their  lines  were 
wrought ; 
And  sundered  arch,  and  plundered  tomb. 

Still  thunder  back  the  echo,  "Kome." 

Yet  gayly  o'er  Egeria's  fount 

The  ivy  Hings  its  emerald  veil. 
And  flowers  giow  fair  on  Nunia's mount, 

And  light-sprung  arches  span  the  dale ; 
And  soft,  from  Caracalla's  baths, 

The  herdsman's  song  comes  down  the 
breeze. 
While  climb  his  goats  the  giddy  paths 

To  grass-grown  architraves  and  frieze ; 
And  gracefully  AUmno's  hill 

Curves  into  the  horizon's  line. 
And  sweetly  sings  that  classic  rill. 

And  fairly  stands  that  nameless  shrine  ; 
And  here,  0,  many  a  sultry  noon 

And  starry  eve,  tliat  ha])py  June, 
Came  Angelo  and  Melanie  ! 
And  earth  for  us  was  all  in  tune, — 

For  wliile  Love  talked  with  them, 
Hope  walked  apart  with  me. 


CAROLINE 


ELIZABETH 
TON. 


NOR- 


BINGEN  ON  THE  RHINE. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in 

Algiers, 
There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there 

was  dearth  of  woman's  tears  ; 
But  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while 

his  life-blood  ebbed  away, 
And  bent,  wi*h  iiitying  glances,  to  hear 

what  he  might  say. 


The  dying  soldier  faltered,  and  he  took 

that  comrade's  hand. 
And  he  said,  "I  nevermore  shall  see  my 

own,  my  native  land ; 
Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some 

distant  friends  of  mine. 
For  I  was  born  at  Bingeu,  —  fair  Bingen 

on  the  Rhine. 

"Tell  my  brothers  and  companiims,  when 
they  meet  and  crowd  around. 

To  hear  my  mourid'ul  stoiy,  in  the  pleas- 
ant vineyaid  groun<l. 

That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and 
when  the  day  was  done. 

Full  many  a  corse  lay  gliastly  pale  beneath 
the  setting  sun  ; 

And,  mid  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some 
grown  old  in  wars, — 

The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts, 
the  last  of  many  scars  ; 

And  some  were  young,  and  suddeidy  be- 
held life's  mom  ilecJine, — 

And  one  had  come  fiom  Bhigen, — fair 
Bingen  on  the  Khine. 


"Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  son  shall 

comfort  her  old  age  ;      .  * 
For  I  was  still  a  truant  bird,  that  thought 

his  home  a  cage. 
For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as 

a  child 
My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of 

struggles  fierce  and  wild ; 
And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide 

his  scanty  hoard, 
I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but 

kept  my  father's  sword  ; 
And  with  boyish  love  1  hung  it  where  the 

bright  light  used  to  shine, 
On  the  cottage  wall  at  Bingen,  —  calm 

Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 


"Tell  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and 

sob  with  drooping  head. 
When  troops  come  marching  home  again 

with  glad  and  gallant  tread. 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a 

calm  and  steadfast  eye. 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and 

not  afraid  to  die  ; 
And  if  a  connade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her 

in  my  name 
To  listen  to'  him  kindly,  without  regret 

or  shame, 


174 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


And  to  lian!T  the  old  sword  in  its  place 
(my  fatlier's  sword  and  mine), 

ForthehonorofoldBingi-n, — ddarBingen 
on  the  liliine. 


"There  's  another,  —  not  a  sister ;  in  the 

hiippy  diiys  gone  by 
You  'd  have  known  licr  l)y  the  merriment 

that  sparkled  in  her  eye ; 
Too  innocent   for  coquetry, — too  fond 

for  idle  scorning,  — 

0  friend  !  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes 

sometimes  lieaviest  mourning! 
Tell  her  tlie  last  night  of  my  life  (for,  ere 

the  moon  he  risen, 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain,  my  soiil  be 

out  of  prison) 

1  dreamed  1  stood  with  her,  and  saw  the 

yellow  snnliglit  sliine 
On  the  vine-chid  hills  of  Bingen,  — fair 
Binjcen  on  the  Rhine. 


"I  saw  the  blue  Kliine  sweep  along;  I 
heard,  or  seemed  to  liear. 

The  German  songs  we  used  to  sing,  in 
chorus  sweet  and  clear  ; 

And  down  the  pleasant  river,  and  up  the 
slanting  hill. 

The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the 
evening  calm  and  still ; 

And  her  glad  blue  eyes  weie  on  me,  as 
we  passed,  with  friendly  talk, 

Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and 
well-remembered  walk  ! 

And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confid- 
ingly in  mine,  — 

But  we  il  meet  no  more  at  Bingen,  — 
loved  Bingen  on  the  Rhine." 


Jlistremblingvoicegrew  faint  andhoarso, 

his  gi-as[)  was  cliililish  weak, — 
Hiseyes  put  on  a  dyinglook,  —  hesighed, 

and  ceased  to  s})eak  ; 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the 

spaik  of  life  had  tied,  — 
The  soldier  of  the   Legion  in  a  foreign 

land  is  dead ! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and 

calmly  she  looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  the  battle-field,  with 

bloody  corses  strewn  ; 
Yes,  calmly  on   that  dreadful  scene  her 

pale  light  seemed  to  shine. 
As  it  shone    on    distant   Bingen,  —  fair 

Bingen  on  tlie  Rhine. 


EDWARD  LORD  LYTTON. 

THE  SABBATH. 

Frksh  glides  the  brook  and  blowsthegale, 
Yet  yonder  halts  the  quiet  mill ; 

The  whirring  wheel,  the  nishiug  sail, 
How  motionless  and  still! 

Six  days'  stern  labor  shuts  the  poor 
From  Nature's  careless  banquet-hall; 

The  seventh  an  angel  0[>es  the  door, 
And,  smiling,  welcomes  all  1 

A  Father's  tender  mercy  gave 
This  holy  respite  to  the  breast. 

To  breathe  the  gale,  to  watch  the  wave, 
And  know  —  the  wheel  may  rest  I 

Six  days  of  toil,  poor  child  of  Cain, 
Thy  strength  thy  master's  slave  must 
be; 

The  seventh  the  limbs  escape  the  chain,  — 
A  God  hath  made  thee  iiee  ! 

The  fields  that  yester-morning  knew 
Thy  footsteps  as  their  serf,  survey ; 

On  thee,  as  them,  descends  the  dew, 
The  baptism  of  the  day. 

Fresh  glides  the  brook  and  blows  thegale, 
But  yonder  halts  the  quiet  mill ; 

The  whirring  wheel,  the  rushing  sail, 
How  motionless  and  still ! 

So  rest,  0  weary  heart !  —  but,  lo. 

The    church-spire,    glistening    up    to 
heaven. 

To  warn  thee  where  thy  thoughtsshould  go 
The  day  thy  God  hath  given  ! 

Lone  through  the  landscape's  solemn  rest, 
The  spire  its  moral  points  on  high. 

0  soul,  at  ])eace  within  the  breast. 
Rise,  mingling  with  the  sky  ! 

They  tell  thee,  in  their  <lreaming  school, 
Of  power  from  old  dominion  hurled. 

When  rich  and  poor,  with  juster  rule, 
Shall  share  the  altered  world. 

Alas  !  since  time  itself  began. 

That  fable  hath  but  fooled  the  hour; 

Each  age  that  ripens  power  in  man 
But  subjects  man  to  power. 

Yet  every  day  in  seven,  at  least. 

One  bright  republic  shall  be  known  ; 


FRANCES   ANNE   KEJfBLE. 


FRANCES    S.    OSGOOD. 


iO 


Man's  world  awhile  hath  surely  ceased, 
When  God  proclaims  his  own ! 

Six  days  may  rank  divide  the  poor, 
0  Dives,  from  thy  ban(juet-hall ; 

The  seventh  the  Father  opes  the  door, 
And  liolds  his  feast  lor  all ! 


FRANCES  ANNE  KEMBLE. 

FAITH. 

Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived, 
And  weep  that  trust  and  tliat  deceiving. 
Than  doubt  one  lieart  that  if  believed 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

O,  in  this  mocking  world  too  fast 
The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth  ; 
Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 
Tlian  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 


JOHN  STERLING. 

[1806- 1844.] 

.  HYMN. 

0  UNSEEN  Spirit!  now  a  calm  divine 
Comes  forth  from  thee,  rejoicing  earth 
and  air ! 
Trees,  hills,  and   houses,   all  distinctly 
shine. 
And  thy  great  ocean  slumbers  every- 
where. 

The  mountain-ridge  against  the  purple  sky 
Stands  clear  and  strong,  with  darkened 
roc^ks  and  dells, 
And  cloudless  brightness  opens  wide  on 
high 
A   home   aerial,    where    thy  presence 
dwells. 

The  chime  of  bells  remote,  the  murmuring 
sea. 
The  song  of  birds  in  whispering  copse 
and  wood, 
Thedistantvoice  of  children's  thoughtless 
glee. 
And  maiden's  song,  are  all  one  voice 
of  good. 


Amid  the  leaves'  green  mass  a  sunny  play 

Of  flash  and  shadow  stirs  like  inward 

life  ; 

The  ship's  white  sail  glides  onward  far 

away, 

Unhaunted  by  a  dream  of  storm  or  strife. 

0  Thou,  the  primal  fount  of  lifcand  peace, 

Who  shedd'st  thy  breathing  quiet  all 

around. 

In  me  command  that  pain  and  conflict 

cease, 

And  turn  to  music  every  jarringsound ! 

How  longs  eacli  pulse  within  the  weary  soul 
To  taste  the  life  of  this  benignant  hour, 

To  be  at  one  with  thy  untroubled  whole. 
And  in  itself  to  know  thy  hushing 
power. 

In  One,  who  walked  on  earth  a  man  of  woe, 
Was  holier  peace  than  even  this  hour 
inspires ; 
From  him  to  me  let  inward  quiet  flow, 
And  give  the  might  my  failing  will 
requires. 

Sethis  great  All  around, so  he, and  thou, 

The  central  source  and  awful  bound  of 

things. 

May  fill  my  heart  with  rest  as  deep  as  now 

To  land  and  sea  and  air  thy  presence 

brings. 


FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD. 

[v.  S.  A.,   1812-  1850.] 

LABOR. 

Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before 

us; 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that 

come  o'er  us; 
Hark  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus, 
Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  heaven  ! 
Never  the  ocean-wave  faltei's  in  flowing; 
Never  the  little  seed  sto])S  in  its  growing ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  rose  heart  keejis 

glowing. 
Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

"Labor  is  worship!"  the  robin  is  sing- 
ing ; 
"Labor  is  worship!"    the  wild   bee   is 


176 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Listen  !  that  elor[uent  whisper,  iipspring- 
iiig 
Speaks  to  thy  soul  from  out  nature's 
great  heart. 

From  the  dark  cloud' flows  the  life-giving 
shower ; 

From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft -breath- 
ing flower; 

From  tlie   small   insect,  the    rich  coral 
bower ; 
Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from 
his  part. 

Labor  is  life  !  —  'T  is  the  still  water  fail- 
eth; 

Idleness  ever  dcspaireth,  bewaileth  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust 
assaileth ; 
Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness 
of  noon. 

Labor  is  glory!  —  the  flying  cloud  light- 
ens; 

Only    the    waving    wing    changes    and 
brightens; 

Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  fright- 
ens : 
Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep 
them  iu  tune ! 

Labor  is  rest  from  the  sorrows  that  greet 
us. 

Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us, 

llest  from  sin-pi'DUijitings  tliat  ever  en- 
treat us, 
llest  from  world-sirens  that  lure  hs  to 
ill. 

Work,  — ami  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on 
thy  pillow ; 

"Work,  —  thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  com- 
ing billow ; 

liii'  not  down  wearied  'neath  Woe's  weep- 
ing willow ! 
Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute 
will ! 

Labor  is  health  !  —  Lo  !  the  husbandman 
reaping. 

How  through  his  veins  goes  the  life-cur- 
rent leajniig! 

How  liis  stiotig  arm  in  its  stalwart  pride 
.sweeping, 
True   as  a  sunbeam   the   swift  sickle 
guides. 

Labor  is  wealth, — in  the  sea  the  pearl 
groweth ; 

I?ich  the  queen's  robe  from  the  frail  co- 
coon Hosveth ; 


From  the  fine   acorn   the  strong  forest 
bloweth; 
Temple  and  statue  the  marble  block 
hides. 

Droop  not,  though  shame,  sin,  andanguish 

are  round  thee ; 
Bravely  fling  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath 

bound  thee ! 
Look  to  yon  pure  heaven  smiling  beyond 

thee : 
Rest  not  content.in  thy  darkness,  —  a 

clod ! 
Work    for   some   good,   be    it    ever    so 

slowly; 
Cherish  some  Hower,  be  it  e\'er  so  lowly  : 
Labor! —  all  labor  is  noble  and  holy ; 
Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to 

thy  God. 


JONES  VERY. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  PRESENT  HEAVEN. 

Father  !  thy  wondersdonot.singl}'^ stand. 
Nor  far  removed  where  feet  have  sel- 
dom strayed ; 
Around  us  ever  lies  the  enchanted  land. 
In  marvels  rich  to  thine  own  sons  dis- 
played. 

In  finding  thee  are  all  things  round  us 
found  ; 
In  losing  thee  are  all  things  lost  beside ; 
Ears  have  we,  but  in  vain  sweet  voices 
sound. 
And  to  our  eyes  the  vision  is  denied. 

Open  our  eyes,  that  we  that  world  may 
see ! 
Open  our  ears,  that  we  thy  voice  may 
hear. 
And  in  the  spirit-land  may  ever  be, 
And  feel  thy  presence  with  us,  always 
near. 


TO  THE  PAINTED  COLUMBINE. 

Brfoht  image  of  the  early  years 
When  glowed  my  cheek  as  red  as 
thou, 


THOMAS   MILLER. — JOHN   KEBLE. 


177 


And  life's  dark  throng  of  cares  and  fears 
Were  swift- winged  shadows  o'er  my  sunny 
brow ! 

Thou  hhishest  from  the  painter's  page, 

Robed  in  tlie  mimic  tints  of  art ; 
But  Nature's  hand  in  youth's  green  age 
With  fairer  hues  first  traced  thee  on  my 
heart. 

The  morning's  bhish,  she  madeitthine ; 
The  mom's  sweat  breath,  she  gave 
it  thee ; 
And  in  thy  look,  my  Columbine ! 
Each  fond-remembered  spot  slie  bade  me 
see. 

I  see  the  hill's  far-gazing  head. 

Where  gay  thou  noddest  in  the  gale ; 
I  hear  light-bounding  footsteps  tread 
The  grassy  iiath  that  winds  along  the  vale. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  woodland  song 
Break   froni   each   bush   and   well- 
known  tree, 
And,  on  light  pinions  borne  along, 
Comes  back  the  laugh  irom  childhood's 


heart  of  glee. 

O'er  the  dark  rock  the  dashing  brook, 

With  look  of  anger,  leaps  again, 
And,  hastening  to  each  flowery  nook. 
Its  distant  voice  is  heaid  far  down  the 
glen. 

Fair  child  of  art!  thy  charms  decay. 
Touched  by  the  withered  hand   of 
Time ; 
And  hushed  the  music  of  that  day, 
When  my  voice  mingled  with  the  stream- 
let's chime : 

But  on  my  heart  thy  cheek  of  bloom 
Shall  live  when  Nature's  smile  has 
fled; 
And,  rich   with  memory's  sweet  per- 
fume. 
Shall  o'er  her  grave  thy  tribute  incense 
shed. 

There   shalt  thou  live  and  wake  the 
glee 
That  echoed  on  thy  native  hill ; 
And  when,  loved  flower!    I  think  of 
thee, 
My  infant  feet  will  seem  to  seek   thee 
still. 

12 


THOMAS  MILLER. 

EVENING  SONG. 

How  many  days  with  mute  adieu 
Have  gone  down  yon  untrodden  sky, 
And  still  it  looks  as  clear  and  blue 
As  when  it  first  was  hung  on  high. 
The  rolling  sun,  the  frowning  t-loud 
That  drew  the  lightning  in  its  rear, 
The  thunder  tramping  dee])  and  loud. 
Have  left  no  foot-mark  there. 

The  village-bells,  with  silver  chime, 
Come  softened  by  the  distant  shore; 
Though  I  have  heard  them  many  a  time. 
They  never  rung  so  sweet  before. 
A  silence  rests  upon  the  hill, 
A  listening  awe  pervades  the  air  ;  , 

The  very  flowers  are  shut  and  still. 
And  bowed  as  if  in  prayer. 

And  in  this  hushed  and  breathless  close, 
O'er  earth  and  air  and  sky  and  sea, 
A  still  low  voice  in  silence  goes, 
Which  speaks  alone,  great  God,  of  thee. 
The  whispeiing  leaves,  the  far-ott'  brook. 
The  linnet's  warble  fainter  grown, 
The  hive-bound  bee,  the  building  rook,  — 
All  these  their  Maker  own. 

Now  Nature  sinks  in  soft  repose, 
A  living  semblance  of  the  grave; 
The  dew  steals  noiseless  on  the  rose. 
The  boughs  have  almost  ceased  to  wave  ; 
The  silent  sk3%  the  sleeping  earth, 
Tree,  mountain,  stream,  the  humble  sod, 
All  tell  from  whom  they  had  their  birth, 
And  cry,  "Behold  a  God!" 


JOHN  KEBLE. 

[1796- 1821] 

MORNING. 

0,  TIMELY  happy,  timely  wise, 
Hearts  that  with  rising  morn  arise  I 
Eyes  that  the  beam  celestial  view. 
Which  evermore  m.akes  all  things  new ! 

New  every  morning  is  the  love 
Our  wakening  and  uprising  prove, 


178 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Through     sleop     and     darkiu'ss     safely 

brouglit, 
Restored  to  life  and  power  and  thought. 

New  mercies,  each  returning  day, 
Hover  around  us  while  we  piay  ; 
New  peril.s  past,  new  sins  forgiven, 
New    thoughts   of  God,  new    hopes    of 
heaven. 

If,  on  oui-  daily  course,  our  mind 
Be  set  to  hallow  all  we  find, 
New  treasures  still,  of  countless  price, 
God  will  provide  for  sacritice. 

Old  friends,  old  scenes,  will  lovelier  be. 
As  more  of  Heaven  in  each  we  see; 
Some  softening  gleam  of  love  and  prayer 
Shall  dawu  on  every  cross  and  care. 

As  for  some  dear  familiar  strain 
Untired  we  ask,  and  ask  again. 
Ever  in  its  melodious  store 
Finding  a  .spell  unheard  before,  — 

Such  is  the  bliss  of  souls  serene. 

When    they  have    sworn,  and   steadfast 

mean. 
Counting  the  cost,  in  all  to  espy 
Their  God,  in  all  themselves  deny. 

0,  could  we  learn  that  sacrifice. 
What  lights  would  all  around  us  rise ! 
How  would  our  hearts  with  wisdom  talk 
Along  life's  dullest,  dreariest  walk  ! 

We  need  not  bid,  for  cloistered  cell, 
Our  neighbor  and  our  work  farewell, 
Nor  strive  to  wind  ourselves  too  high 
For  sinful  man  beneath  the  sky. 

The  trivial  round,  the  common  task, 
Will  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask  ; 
Room  to  deny  ourselves ;  a  road 
To  biing  us,  daily,  nearer  God. 

Seek  we  no  more :  content  with  these, 
Let  iiresent  rapture,  comfort,  ease. 
As  Heaven  shall  bid  them,  come  and  go; 
The  secret  this  of  rest  below. 

Only,  O  T.ord,  in  thy  dear  love 
Fit  us  fur  jierfcct  rest  above; 
And  help  us,  this  and  every  day, 
To  live  more  nearly  as  we  pray  ! 


INWARD  MUSIC. 

TiiF.i'.E  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 

0\'  human  care  and  crime. 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  everlasting  chime  ; 
W^io  carry  music  in  their  heart 

Through  dusky  lane  and  wrangling 
mart. 
Plying  their  daily  toil  with  busier  feet, 
Because  their  .secret  souls  a  holy  strain 
repeat. 


SIR  ROBERT  GRAXT. 

[1814-1838.] 

O  SAVIOUR!    WHOSE  MERCY. 

O  Saviour  !  whose  mercy,  severe  in  its 
kindness. 
Hath    chastened  my  wanderings   and 
guided  my  way. 
Adored  be  the  power  that  illumined  my 
blindness, 
And  weaned  me  from  phantoms  that 
smiled  to  betray. 

Pmchanted   with  all   that  was  dazzling 
and  fair, 
I  followed  the  rainbow,  I    caught   at 
the  toy ; 
And   still    in    displeasure  thy  goodness 
was  there. 
Disappointing  the  hope  and  defeating 
■     the  joy. 

The  blossom  blushed  bright,  but  a  worm 
was  below ; 
The  moonlight  shone  fair,  there   was 
blight  in  the  beam  ; 
Sweet  whispcivd  the  breeze,  but  it  whis- 
jiercd  of  woe  ; 
And  bitt(>rness  flowed  in  the  soft-flow- 
ing stream. 

So  cured  of  my  folly,  yet  cured  but  in 
part, 
I   turned  to  the  refuge  thy  pit}'  dis- 
played ; 
And  still  did  this  eager  and   credulous 
heart 
Weave  visions  of  promise  that  bloomed 
but  to  fade. 


DEAN    OF   CANTERBURY.  —  BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER. 


179 


I  thought  that  the  course  of  the  pilgiim 
to  heaven 
Would  be  bright  as  the  summer  and 
glad  as  the  morn  : 
Thou  showedst  me  the  path  ;  it  was  dark 
and  uneven, 
All  i-ugged  with  rock  and  all  tangled 
with  thorn. 

I  dreamed  of  celestial   rewards  and  re- 

novv'n, 
■     I  grasped  at  the  triumph  that  blesses 

the  brave ; 
I  asked  for  the  palm-branch,  the  robe, 

and  the  crown, 
I  asked,  and  thou  showedst  me  a  cross 

and  a  grave ! 

Subdued  and  instructed,  at  length  to  thy 
will 
My  hopes  and  my  wishes  I  freely  re- 
sign ; 
0,  give  me  a  heart  that  can  wait  and  be 
still, 
Nor  know  of  a  wish  or  a  pleasure  but 
thine. 

There  are  mansions  exempted  from  sin 
and  fi-om  woe. 
But  they  stand  in  a  region  by  mortals 
untrod  ; 
There  are  rivers  of  joy,  but  they  roll  not 
below ; 
There  is  rest»  but  't  is  found  in  the 
bosom  of  God. 


DEAN  OF  CANTERBURY. 


TRUST. 

I  KNOW  not  if  or  dark  or  bright 

Sliall  be  my  lot ; 
If  that  wherein  my  hopes  delight 

Be  best,  or  not. 

It  may  be  mine  to  drag  for  years 

Toil's  heavy  chain ; 
Or  da}^  and  night  my  meat  be  tears 

On  bed  of  jiain. 

Dear  faces  may  surround  my  hearth 
With  smiles  and  glee ; 

Or  I  may  dwell  alone,  and  mirth 
Be  strange  to  me. 


My  bark  is  wafted  to  the  strand 

By  breath  divine  ; 
And  on  the  helm  there  rests  a  hand 

Other  than  mine. 

One  who  has  known  in  .storms  to  sail 

1  have  on  board  ; 
Above  the  raving  of  the  gale 

I  hear  my  Lord. 

He  holds  me  when  the  billows  smite,  — 

I  shall  not  fall. 
If    sharp,  't    is    short ;    if   long,  't  is 
light,  — 

He  tempers  all. 

Safe  to  the  land,  safe  to  the  land,  — 

The  end  is  this; 
And  then  with  Him  go  hand  in  hand 

Far  into  bliss. 


BRYAN  AVALLER  PROCTER 
(BARRY  CORNWALL). 

[1787- 1874.] 

A  PETITION  TO  TIME. 

TorcH  us  gently.  Time  ! 

L^t  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream  ! 
Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three, — 
(One  is  lost, —  an  angel,  tied 
To  the  azure  overhead!) 

Touch  us  gently.  Time  ! 

We  Ve  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings ; 
Our  andiition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we, 
O'er  life's  dim,  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime;  — 
Touch  us  gcTitly,  gentle  Time  ! 


A  PRAYER  IN  SICKNESS. 

Send  down  thy  winged  angel,  God  ! 

Amid  this  night  so  wild ; 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we  watch, 

And  breathe  upon  our  child ! 


180 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


She  lies  upon  her  pillow,  pale, 
And  nioans  within  her  sleep, 

Or  wakeneth  with  a  jiatient  smile, 
And  striveth  not  to  weep. 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 
Slie  is,  we  know  too  well, 

Anil  dearer  to  iier  parents'  hearts 
Than  our  weak  words  can  tell. 


AVelovp, — we watcli  throughout  the  night 

To  aiil,  when  need  may  be  ; 
We  hope,  —  and  have  <lespaired,  at  times, 

But  now  we  turn  to  thee ! 

Send  (low7i  thy  sweet-souled  angel,  God  ! 

Anii<l  tin'  darkness  wild, 
And  hid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night, 

Ami  heal  our  gentle  child ! 


RICHARD   MOXCKTON   MILXES 
(LORD  HOUGHTON). 

THE  BROOKSIDE. 

I  WANPEnKn  by  the  brookside, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill ; 

]  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, — 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

TlnM-e  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 

l>ut  tlie  beating  of  my  own  heart 

"Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


I  sat  beneath  the  elm -tree ; 

]  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 

And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

1  did  7H)t  feel  alV.dd  ; 

¥ov  1  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word, — 

But  tlie  beating  of  my  own  heart 

AVas  all  the  sound  I  lieard. 

He  came  not, — no,  he  came  not, — 
The  ingiit  came  on  alone,  ^ — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one. 
Each  on  his  golden  throne; 
The  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek. 
The  leaves  above  were  stirred,  — 
P>(\t  the  Iteating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  jieard. 


Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder,  — ■ 
1  knew  its  touch  was  kind  : 
It  drew  me  nearer,  — nearer,  — 
We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 

I  KNOW  not  that  the  men  of  old 

Were  better  than  men  now. 
Of  heart  more  kind,  ot  hand  more  bold. 

Of  more  ingenuous  l)row  ; 
I  heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 

A  ghost  of  time  to  raise. 
As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 

Of  these  appointed  days. 

Still  is  it  true  and  over-true. 

That  I  delight  to  <dose 
This  book  of  life  self-wise  and  new, 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness 

The  world  lias  since  foregone,  — 
The  daylight  of  contentedness 

That  on  those  faces  shone  ! 

With   rights,    though    not    too    closely 
scanned. 

Enjoyed  as  far  as  known, — 
With  will,  by  no  leverse  unmanned, — 

With  pulse  of  even  tone,  — 
They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night 

E.xpected  nothing  more 
Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 

Had  proffered  them  before. 

• 

To  them  was  life  a  simple  art 

Of  duties  to  be  done, 
A  game  where  each  man  took  his  part, 

A  race  where  all  must  run  ; 
A  battle  whosi^  great  selienie  and  scope 

They  litth?  cared  to  know. 
Content,  as  men-nt-arms,  to  cope 

Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 

Man  now  his  virtue's  diadem 
Puts  rui,  and  proudly  wears, — 

Great   thoughts,  great   feelings,  came  to 
them, 
I>ike  instincts  unawares; 

Blending  their  souls'  sublimest  needs 
With  tasks  of  every  day, 


MARY   HOWITT. 


181 


They  went  about  their  gravest  deeds, 
As  noble  boys  at  play. 

A  man's  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  feet ; 
It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 

That  we  are  sick  to  greet : 
For   Howers   that   grow  our   hands   be- 
neath 

We  struggle  and  aspire,  — 
Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 

The  air  of  fresh  desire. 

But,  brothers,  who  up  reason's  hill 

Advance  with  hopeful  cheer,  — 
0,  loiter  not,  those  heights  are  chill, 

As  chill  as  they  are  clear; 
And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze 

The  loftier  that  ye  go, 
Eemembering  distance  leaves  a  haze 

On  all  that  lies  below. 


THE  PALM  AND  THE  PINE. 

Beneath  an  Indian  palm  a  girl 

Of  other  blood  reposes ; 
Her  cheek  is  clear  and  pale  as  pearl, 

Amid  that  wild  of  roses. 

Beside  a  northern  j)ine  a  boy 

Is  leaning  fancy-hound, 
Nor  listens  where  with  noisy  joy 

Awaits  the  impatient  hound. 

• 
Cool  grows  the  sick  and  feverish  calm. 

Relaxed  the  frosty  twine,  — 
The  pine-tree  dreameth  of  the  palm. 

The  palm-tree  of  the  pine. 

As  soon  shall  nature  interlace 
Those  dimly  visioned  boughs, 

As  these  young  lovers  face  to  face 
Renew  their  early  vows  ! 


MARY  HOWITT. 


TIBBIE   INGLIS. 

Bonny  Tibbie  Inglis ! 

Through  sun  and  stormy  weather, 
Sh"  kept  upon  the  broomv  liills 

Her  father's  flock  together. 


Sixteen  sximmers  had  she  seen,  — 

A  rosebud  just  unsealing; 
Witltout  sorrow,  without  fear, 

In  her  mountain  shealing. 

« 
She  was  made  for  happy  thoughts, 

For  playful  wit  and  laughter; 
Singing  on  the  hills  alone. 

With  echo  siniiiiifr  after. 

She  had  hair  as  deeply  black 

As  the  cloud  of  thunder; 
She  had  brows  so  beautiful. 

And  dark  eyes  flashing  under. 

Bright  and  witty  shepherd-girl, 

Beside  a  mountain  water, 
I  found  hei',  w  hom  a  king  himself 

Would  jiroiully  call  his  diiughter. 

She  was  sitting  'mong  the  crags. 
Wild  and  mossed  and  hoary; 

Reading  in  an* ancient  book 
Some  old  martyr  story. 

Tears  were  starting  to  her  eyes. 
Solemn  thought  was  o'er  her ; 

When  she  saw  in  that  lone  place 
A  stranger  stand  before  her. 

Crimson  was  her  sunny  cheek, 
And  her  lips  seemed  moving 

With  the  beatings  of  her  heart; — 
How  could  1  help  loving? 

On  a  crag  I  sat  me  down. 
Upon  the  mountain  hoary. 

And  made  her  read  again  to  me 
That  old  pathetic  story. 

Then  she  sang  me  mountain  songs, 

Till  the  air  was  ringing 
With  her  clear  and  warbling  voice, 

Like  a  skylark  singing. 

And  when  eve  came  on  at  length, 
Among  the  blooming  heatlier. 

We  herded  on  the  mountain-side 
Her  father's  flock  together. 

And  near  unto  her  father's  house 
I  said  "Good  niglit!"  with  sorroAV, 

And  inly  wished  that  I  might  say, 
"We  '11  meet  again  to-moriow." 

I  watched  her  tripping  to  her  home ; 
1  saw  her  meet  her  mother. 


182 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


"Among  a  thousand  maids,"  I  cried, 
"There  is  not  such  another!" 

I  wandered  to  mj'  scholar's  home. 
It  loueSonie  looked  and  dreary; 

I  tijok  niy  hooks,  hut  could  not  read, 
Methouglit  that  I  was  weary. 

I  laid  me  down  upon  my  hed, 
My  licart  witli  sadness  laden  ; 

I  dreamed  hut  of  the  mountain  wold. 
And  of  the  mountain  maiden. 

1  saw  her  of  tlie  ancient  hook 
Tlie  pages  turning  slowly  ; 
I  saw  her  lovely  crimson  cheek, 
'    And  dark  eye  droojnng  lowly. 

The  di-eam  was  like  the  day's  delight, 
A  life  i)f  pain's  ()'er]>ayment : 

I  rose,  and  with  unwonteil  care, 
Put  on  my  Sahhath  raiment. 

To  none  I  told  my  secret  thoughts, 

Not  even  to  my  mother, 
Nor  to  the  fiiend  wiio,  from  my  youth, 

Was  dear  as  is  a  brother. 

I  got  me  to  the  hills  again  ; 

Th.i  little  Mock  w;is  feeding: 
And  thiMe  young  Til)hie  Inglis  sat, 

Dut  not  the  old  book  reailing. 

She  sat  as  if  absorbing  thought 
With  heav\'  s{)ells  liad  bound  her, 

As  silent  as  the  mossy  crags 

Ujion  the  mountains  r(jund  her. 

I  thought  not  of  my  Sabbath  dress; 

I  thougiit  not  of  my  learning: 
1  tiiought  but  of  the  gentle  maid 

Who,  I  believed,  was  mourning. 

Koniiy  Tibbie  Inglis! 

Ijiiw  licr  beauty  Itrightencd, 
Loolung  at  me,  half  abashed, 

With  eyes  that  Hamed  and  lightened ! 

Tliere  was  no  sorrow,  then  I  saw. 
There  was  no  thought  of  sadness: 

0  life  !  what  after-joy  bast  thou 
Like  love's  lirst  c<;rtain  gladness? 

1  sat  me  down  among  the  crags, 

Upon  the  mountain  hoary; 
l»\it  read  not  then  tin-  aneient  hook, — 
Love  was  oui'  i)leasant  story. 


And  then  she  sang  me  songs  again. 
Old  songs  of  love  and  sorrow  ; 

For  our  sutficient  hai)piness 

Great  charm  from  woe  could  borrow. 

And  many  hours  we  talked  in  joy, 
Yet  too  much  blessed  for  laughter  : 

I  was  a  happy  man  that  day, 
And  hajjpy  ever  after ! 


WILLIAM  HOWITT. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

AxD  is  the  swallow  gone? 

Who  beheld  it? 

Which  way  sailed  it  ? 
Farewell  bade  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go;  — 

But  who  doth  hear 

its  summei-  cheer 
As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro  ? 

So  the  freed  spirit  flies  ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steals  away 
Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

"Whither?  wherefore  doth  it  go? 

'T  is  all  unknown ; 

.We  fe(d  alone 
That  a  void  is  left  below. 


WILLIAM  LAIDLAW. 


[17S0-1S45.] 


LUCY'S  FLITTIN'. 

'T  \V.\s  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk- 

tree  was  fa'in, 
And  Martinmas  dowie  had  wound  up 

the  year, 
That  Lucy  rowed  up  her  wee  kist  wi'  her 

a'  in  't, 
And  left  her  auld  maisterand  ncibours 

sae  dear : 
For  Lucy  had  served  i'  the  glen  a'  the 

sinnuer ; 


UNKNOWN. 


183 


She  cam  there  afore  the  bloom  cam  on 

the  pea; 
An  orphan  was  she,  and  they  had  been 

gude  till  her. 
Sure   that   was  the  thing  broeht  the 

tear  to  her  ee. 

She  gaed  by  the  stable  where  Jamie  was 
stannin'  f 
Eicht   sair   was    his    kind   lieart    her 
fhttin'  to  see. 
"Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy!"  quo'  Jamie,  and 
ran  in  ; 
The  gatherin'  tears  trickled  fast  frae 
her  ee. 
As  down  the  burnside  she  gaed  slow  wi' 
her  flittin', 
"Fare  ye  weel,  Lucy  !"  was  ilka  bird's 
sang ; 
She  heard  the  craw  sayin  't,  high  on  tlie 
trees  sittin', 
And  the  robin  was  chirpin  't  the  brown 
leaves  aniaug. 

"0,  what  is  't  that  pits  my  puir  heart  in 
a  flutter  ? 
And  what  gars  the  tears  come  sae  fast 
to  my  ee  ? 
If  I  wasna  ettled  to  be  ony  better, 

Tlieii  what  gars  me  wish  ony  better  to 
be? 
I  'm  just   like   a  lammie  that  h.ses  its 
niither; 
Nae  niither  or  friend  the  puir  lannnie 
can  see ; 
I  fear  I  hae  tint  my  puir  heart  a'therrither, 
Nae  wonder  tlie  tear  fa's  sae  fast  frae 
my  ee. 

"  Wi'  the  rest  o'  my  claes  I  hae  rowed  up 
the  ribbon. 
The  bonnie  blue  ribbon  tliat  Jamie  gae 
me ; 
Yestreen,  when  lie  gae  me  't,  and  saw  I 
was  sabbiii', 
I  '11  never  forget  the  wae  blink  o'  his  ee. 
Though  now  he  .said  naethiiig  but   'Fare 
ye  weel,  Lucy  ! ' 
It  made  me   I    neither   could    speak, 
hear,  nor  see : 
He  couldiia  say  mair  but  just,  '  Fare  j'e 
weel,  Lucy  ! ' 
Yet  that  1  will  mind  till  the  day  that 
I  dee." 

The  lamb  likes  the  gowan  wi'  dew  when 
it 's  droukit ; 


The  hare  likes  the  brake  and  the  braird 
on  the  lea ; 
But  Lucy  likes  Jamie;  —  she  turned  and 
she  lookit, 
She  thoclit  the    dear    place    she    wad 
never  mair  see.. 
Ah,  weel  may  young  Jamie  gang  dowie 
and  cheerless ! 
And  weel  may  he  greet  on  the  bank  o' 
the  burn ! 
For  bonnie  sweet  Lucy,  sae  gentle  and 
peerless. 
Lies  cauld  in  her  grave,  and  will  never 
return ! 


UNKNOWN. 


SUMMER  DAYS. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  walked  together  in  tlie  wood  ; 

Our  heart  wasliglit,  ourstejjwasstrong. 
Sweet  flutterings  were  in  our  blood, 

In  summei',  when  the  days  were  long. 

We   strayed   from   morn   till  evening 
came ; 
We     gathered     flowers,    and    wove     us 

crowns; 
•    We  walked  mid  floppies  red  as  tiame. 
Or  sat  \\\)on  the  yellow  downs ; 

And  always  wished  our  life  the  .'ame. 

In  sunnner,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We    leaped    the  hedge-i'Ow,  crossed   the 
brook ; 

And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song. 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  l)ook. 

In  sinnmer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees, 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 

And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze 
We  feasted,  many  a  gorgeous  June, 

While    larks    were    singing    o'er    the 
leas. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 
On  dainty  chicken,  snow-white  bread. 

We  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  .■^ong; 
We  plucked  wild  strawberries,  ii]^e  and 
red. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not,  — 
For  loving  seemed  like  breathing  then ; 


184 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


We  fonnil  a  heavon  in  every  s])ot ; 
Saw  aiij^els,  too,  in  all  good  men  ; 

And  (Ireamed  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 

in  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  I  wander,  muse  alone. 

I  see  her  not ;  but  that  old  song 
Under  the  I'ragiant  wind  is  blown, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wiinder  in  the  wood : 
But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs ; 

Ami  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good, 
The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 

That  ohanned  nie  under  earlier  skies. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
I  love  her  as  we  loved  of  old. 

My  lieart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong; 
For  love    biings    back   those   hours   of 
gold, 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 


riiAXCES  BROWNE. 

LOSSES. 

Upnx  the  white  sea-sand 
There  sat  a  ]>ilgrim  band. 
Telling  the  losses  that  their   lives   had 
known ; 
"While  evening  waned  away 
From  breezy  clifraiid  bay. 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary 
moan. 

One  spake,  with  quiverinj^  lip, 
Of  a  fair  freighteii  shif). 
With  all  his  household  to  the  deep  gone 
down  ; 
But  one  hiid  wilder  woe, — 
For  a  fair  fiee,  long  ago 
Lost  in   the   darker   depths  of  a   great 
town. 

There   were   who   mourned  their 

youth 
With  a  most  loving  ruth, 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  mcmoiies  ever 
green  ; 
And  one  upon  the  west 
Turned  an  eye  thiit  would  not  rest, 
For   far-otf   hills  whereon  its  joys  had 
been. 


Some  talked  of  vanished  gold. 
Some  of  [>roud  honors  told, 
Some  spake   of  friends  that  were  their 
trust  no  more ; 
And  one  of  a  green  grave. 
Beside  a  foreign  wave. 
That    made   him   sit  so   lonely  on  the 
shore. 

• 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 
There  spake  among  them  one, 

A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free : 
"Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 
But  mine  is  heavier  yet ; 

For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from 
me." 

"Alas!"  these  ])ilgrims  said, 

"For  the  living  and  the  dead, — 
For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross, 

For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea  ! 

But,  however  it  came  to  thee, 
Thine,  stranger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviest 
loss." 


EGBERT  NICOLL. 

[1814-1S37.] 

WE   ARE  BRETHREN   A'. 

A  HAPPY  bit  hame  this  auld  world  would 

be, 
If  men.  when  they're  here,  could  make 

shift  to  agree, 
An'  ilk  said  to  his  neighbor,  in  cottage 

an'  ha', 
"Come,  gi'e   me    your    hand, — we  are 

brethren  a'." 

I  ken  na  why  ane  wi'  anither  should  fight. 
When  to  'gree  would  make  ae  body  cosie 

an'  right, 
When  man  meets  wi'  man,  't  is  the  best 

way  ava. 
To  say,  "Gi'e  me  your  hand, — we  are 

brethren  a'." 

My  coat  is  a  coarse  ane,  an'  j'ours  may 
be  fine. 

Anil  I  mnnn  drink  water,  while  you  may 
liriids  wine  ; 

But  we  baith  ha'e  a  leal  heart,  unspotted 
to  shaw : 

Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand,  —  we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 


RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


185 


The  knave  ye  would  scorn,  the  unfaithfu' 
deride ; 

Ye  would  stand  like  a  rock,  wi'  the  truth 
on  your  side ; 

Sae  would"  I,  an'  naught  else  would  i 
value  a  straw: 

Then  gi'e  me  your  hand,  —  we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 

Ye  would  scorn  to  do  fausely  by  woman 
or  man ; 

I  hand  by  the  right  aye,  as  weel  as  I  can  ; 

We  are  ane  in  our  joys,  our  ati'ections, 
an'  a' : 

Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand,  — we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 

Your  mother  has  lo'ed  you  as  mithers  can 
lo'e; 

An'  mine  has  done  for  me  wdiat  mithers 
can  do ; 

We  are  ane  high  an'  laigh,  an'  we 
sliouldna  be  twa : 

Sae  gi'e  me  your  hand,  —  we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 

We  love  the  same  simmer  day,  sunny 
and  fair ; 

Hame !  0,  how  we  love  it,  an'  a'  that  are 
there! 

Frae  the  pure  air  of  heaven  the  same  life 
we  draw  : 

Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand,  —  we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 


Frail  shakin'  auld  age  will  soon  come 
o'er  us  baith. 

An'  creeping  alang  at  his  back  will  be 
death ; 

Syne  into  the  same  mither-yird  we  will 
fa' : 

Come,  gi'e  me  your  hand,  —we  are  breth- 
ren a'. 


Save,  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes 

her  home. 
Her    shrill    cry    coming    through    the 

sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest. 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 
Sits  swinging  silently ; 
How  beautif  ufl  no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up   the 
beach. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell ; 
The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its 
side ; 
From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 
Kings  clK^rful,  far  and  wi<le, 
Mingling  its  sound  with  bleatings  of  the 

flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks. 

Nor  holy  bell  nor  pastoral  bleat 

In  former  days  within  the  vale; 
Flapped  in  the'bay  the  pirate's  sheet; 
Curses  were  on  the  gale ; 
Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered 

men ; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then, 

P,ut  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace, 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  the  ear ; 
A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face, 
Subdued  and  holy  fear  : 
Each  motiongentle ;  all  is  kindlydone  ;— 
Come,  listen,  how  from  crime  this   isle 
was  won. 


-♦ — 


RICHARD  H.  DANA. 

[U    S.  A.] 

(From  "The  Buccaneer,"  published  in  1827.) 
THE  ISLAND. 

Thk  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 

Along  its.  solitary  shore. 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 

No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 


THE  PIRATE. 

Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matthew 
Lee 
Held  in  this  isle  unquestioned  sway ; 
A  dark,  low,  brawny  man  Avas  he  ; 
Hislaw,  — "Itisniy  way." 
Beneath  his  thick-set  brows  a  sharp  light 

broke 
From  small  gray  eyes ;  his  laugh  a  triumph 
spoke. 

Cruel  of  heart  and  strong  of  arm. 

Loud  in  his  sjiort  and  keen  for  spoil. 
He  little  recked  of  good  f)r  harm. 
Fierce  both  in  mirth  and  toil ; 
Yet  like  a  dog  could  fawn,  if  need  there 

were  ; 
Speak  mildly,  when  he  would,  or  look  in 
fear. 


186 


SONGS    OF   THEEE    CENTCTRIES. 


Aniiil  tlie  u]iroar  of  tlic  storm. 

And  by  the  lightning's   sharp,  red 

Were  sevn  Lee's  face  and  sturdy  form ; 
His  axe  glanced  (^uick  in  air: 
Whose  cori)se  at  morn  is  floating  in  the 

sedge  ? 
There  's  blood  and  hair,  Mat,  on  thy  axe's 
edge. 

THE  SPECTRE  HORSE. 

Hk  's  now  upon  the  spectre's  back. 

With  rein  of  silk  and  curb  of  gold. 
'Tis  fearful  speed!  —  the  rein  is  slack 
Within  iiis  senseless  hold  ; 
Upborne  by  an"  unseen  poyer,  he  onward 

rides, 
Yet   touches   not   the   shadow -beast   he 
strides. 

He  goes  with  speed  ;  he  goes  with  dread  ! 
And  now  they  're  on   the   hanging 
steep ! 
And,  now  !  the  living  and  the  dead, 
They  '11  make  the  horrid  leap  ! 
The  horse  stops  short;  —  his  feet  are  on 

the  verge. 
He  stands,  like  marble,  high  above  the 
surge. 

And,  nigh,  the  tall  ship  yet  burns  on. 
With  red,  hot  spars,  and  crackling 
flame. 
From  hull  to  gallant,  nothing  's  gone. 
She  burns,  and  yet 's  the  same  ! 
Her  hot,  red   flame   is   beating,  all   the 

night. 
On  man  and  horse,  in  their  cold,  phos- 
phor light. 

Through  that  cold  light  the  fearful  man 

Sits  looking  on  the  burning  ship. 
He  ne'er  again  will  curse  and  ban. 
How  fast  he  moves  the  lip ! 
Ami  yet  he  does  not  speak,  or  make  a 

sound  ! 
What  see   you,  Lee?   the  bodies  of  the 
drowned  ? 

"I  look  where  mortal  man  may  not, — 

Into  the  ciiamt)ers  of  the  deep. 
I  see  tiie  dead,  long,  long  foigot ; 
I  see  thi-m  in  their  sleep. 
A   dreadful   jiowcr  is  mine,  whirh  none 

can  kn<iw 
Save  he  who  leagues  his  soul  with  death 
and  woe." 


Thou  mild,  sad  mother,  —  waning moon, 

Thy  last,  low,  melancholy  ray 
Shine's  toward  him.     Quit  him  not  so 
soon  1 
Mother,  in  nuM'cy,  stay  ! 
Despair  and  death  are   with   him;   and 

canst  thou. 
With  that  kind,  earthward  look,  go  leave 
him  now  ? 

0,  tluni  wast  born  for  things  of  love ; 

Making  more  lovely  in  thy  shine 
Whate'er  tlio\i  look'st  on.'  Stars  above, 
In  that  soft  light  of  thine. 
Burn  softer ;  earth,  in  silvery  veil,  seems 

heaven. 
Thou  'rt   going   down  !  —  hast   left   him 
un forgiven ! 

The  fiir,  low  west  is  bright  no  more. 

How  still  it  is !   No  sound  is  heard 
At  sea,  or  all  along  the  shore, 
But  cry  of  passing  bird. 
Thou  living  thing,  —  and  dar'st  thou  come 

so  near 
These  wild  and  ghastly  shapes  of  death 
and  fear? 

Nowlongtbatthick,  redlight  has slionfi 
On  stern,  dark  rocks,  and  deep,  still 
bay, 
On  man  and  horse,  that  seem  of  stone, 
So  motionless  are  they. 
But  now  its  hirid  fire  less  fiercely  burns  : 
The  night  is  going, — faint,  gray  dawn 
returns. 

That  spectre-steed  )iow  slowly  ])ales. 

Now  changes  like  the  moonlit  (doud  ; 
That  cold,  thin  light  now  slowly  fails, 
Whiidi  wrajtpeil  them  like  a  shroud. 
Both  sliiji  ami  horse  are  fading  into  air. 
Lost,  mazed,  alone, — see,  Lee  is  stand- 
ing there ! 

The  moining  air  blows  fresh  on  him; 

The  waves  dance  gladly  in  his  sight ; 
The    .sea-birds    call,    and    wheel,   and 
skim,  — 
0  Vdessed  nu)rning  light ! 
He  doth  not  hear  their  joyous  call ;  he 

sees 
No  beauty  in   the  wave,    nor  feels  the 
breeze. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 


187 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the   heavens  with  the  last 

steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou 
pursue 
Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  e3'e 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee 

wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  ^\■eedy  lake,  or  marge  of  liver  wide. 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  lise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power,  whose  care 
Teaches   thy  way   along    that   pathless 

coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned-, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmos- 
phere ; 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  <'m\ ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and 

rest. 
And  scream   among  thy  fellows;   reeds 
shall  bend 
Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet  on  my 

heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast 
given, 
And  shall  not  soon  depart : 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through   the  boundless  sky  thy 

certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone. 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she 

speaks 
A  various  language  :  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  gentle  symjiathy  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     When 

thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shioml,  and  pall. 
And  breathless  daikness,  and  the  narrow 

house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at 

heart, 
Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To   Nature's   teachings,  while  from   all 

aionnd  — 
Earth,  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of 

ail'  — 
Comes  a  still  voice,  - — Yet  a  few  da\'s,  and 

thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
in  air  his  couise ;  nor   yet  in  the  cold 

ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many 

tears. 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee, 

shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again. 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering 

."I'. 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements; 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude 

swain 
Turns  with  his  share  and  treads  ujion. 

The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abro.ad,  and  i:)ierce 

thy  mould. 
Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou    retire    alone, — nor   couldst 

thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie 

down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  — ■ 

with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  —  the  wise, 

the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.  —  The  hills. 


188 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Eock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the 

vales 
Stretching     in     pensive    quietness    be- 
tween ; 
Tlie  venerable  woods ;  rivers  that  move 
111  majesty,  and  tlie  coiiipUuiiing  brooks 
That    make    the    meadows   green;    and, 

poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  grayand  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  tlie  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden 

sun. 
The    planets,    all    the    infinite    host   of 

heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death 
Through  the  stdl  lapse  of  ages.     All  that 

tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its    bosom.     Take  the 

wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  tlie  continuous  woods 
Where   rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no 

sound 
Save  hisown  dashings,  — yet  the  dead  are 

th.'re  ! 
And  millions  in   those  solitudes,  since 

first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them 

down 
In  their  last  sleep,  — the  dead  reign  there 

alone ! 
So  shalt  thou  rest, — and  what  if  thou 

Shalt  fall 
Unnoticed  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that 

breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.      Tlie  gay  will 

laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood 

of  care 
Plod  on,  and   each   one,  as   before,   will 

chase 
His  favoiite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall 

leave 
Tlieir  mirth  iind  their  employments,  and 

sliall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the 

long  train 
Of  iiges  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life's  green   spring,  and  he 

wlio  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and 

maid. 
Till!  bowed  with  age,  tlie  infant  in  the 

smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off — 


Shall  one  by  one   be   gathered   to  thy 

side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow 

them. 
So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes 

to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each 

shall  take 
His    chamber    in    the    silent    halls    of 

death. 
Thou  go  not,   like    the   quarry-slave  at 

iiiglit, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained 

and  soothed 
By  an   unfaltering   trust,  approach  thy 

grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his 

couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant 

dreams. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

Tjie  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  sad- 
dest of  the  year. 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and 
meadows  brown  and  sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the 
witli(!red  leaves  lie  dead  ; 

Thejs  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to 
the  rabbit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and 
from  the  shrubs  the  jay  ; 

And  from  tlie  wood-top  calls  the  crow 
through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young 
flowers,  that  lately  sprang  and 
stood, 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beau- 
teous sisterhood  ? 

Alas !  they  all  are  in  their  graves  ;  the 
gentle  ra('e  of  flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the 
fair  and  good  of  ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  the}'  lie ;  but 
the  cold  November  rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the 
lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  per- 

ishe(l  long  ago ; 
And  the  briei-rose  and  the  orchis  died 

amid  tlie  summer  glow; 


"WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 


189 


But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the 

aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  hrook 

in  autumn  beauty  stood. 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold 

heaven,    as    falls    the    jdague    on 

men. 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was 

gone  from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day, 

as  still  such  days  will  come. 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out 

their  winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nutsis  heard, 

though  all  the  trees  are  still. 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  thewaters 

of  the  rill,  — 
The  south-wind  searches  for  the  flowers 

whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and 

by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youth- 
ful beauty  died, 

The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and 
fadetl  by  my  side  : 

In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her  when 
the  forest  cast  the  leaf. 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should 
have  a  life  fo  brief; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that 
young  friend  of  ours. 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish 
with  the  flowers. 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue. 
That  openest  when  the  (|uiet  liglit 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night,  — 

Thou  cornest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wanderingbrooksand  springs  unseen. 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  drest. 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare,  and  birds  are  flown. 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  its  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 


Blue,  blue,  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

OxcE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands. 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How    guslied    the    life-blood    of   her 
brave,  — 

Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet. 
Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  sjve. 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird. 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  stagger- 
ing wain  ; 

Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry, — 
0,  be  it  never  heard  again  ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  wearj^  day  and  weary  year ; 

A  wild  and  niany-weaponed  tliiong 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  r?ar. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof. 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot; 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof. 

The  sage  may  frown, — yet  faint  thou 
not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast. 
The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn  ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  toearth,  shall  riseagain,  — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers; 


100 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


But  Error,  woumlcd,  wiithes  in  pain, 
And  ilii.'s  among  his  worsliijuiers. 

Yea,  tliongh  tliou  lie  n[>on  the  dust, 
Wlien  tliey  who  lielped  thee  tlee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust. 
Like  those  w  iio  fell  in  battle  here ! 

Another  hand  the  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  tiie  trumpet's  mouth  is  j)ealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave. 


FROM   "THE  RIVULET." 

And  I  shall  sleep ;  and  on  thy  side, 

As  ages  after  ages  glide, 

Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 

And  pass  to  hoary  age,  and  die. 

But  thou,  unehangi'd  from  year  to  year, 

Gayly  siialt  ])lay  and  glitter  here  : 

Amid  j'bung  tlowers  and  tender  grass 

Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass; 

And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 

Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 

Two  dark-eyed  maids,  at  shut  of  day, 
Sat  where  a  river  rolled  away, 
"With  calm,  sad  brows,  and  raven  hair; 
And  one  was  [)ale,  and  both  were  fair. 

Bring  flowers,  they  sang,  bring  flowers 

unblown ; 
Bring  forest  blooms  of  name  unknown  ; 
Bring  liudding  sprays  from  wood  and  wild. 
To  strew  the  bier  of  Love,  the  child. 

Close  softly,  fondly,  while  ye  weep, 
Hi(j  eyes,  that  death  may  seem  like  sleep  ; 
And  fold  liis  hands  in  sign  of  rest, 
His  waxen  hands,  across  his  breast. 

And  make  his  grave  where  violets  hide, 
AV'heie  star- tlowers  strew  the  rivulet's  side, 
And  lilueliirds,  in  the  misty  spring. 
Of  cloudless  skies  and  summer  sing. 

Place  near  him,  as  ye  lay  him  low. 
His  iilie  shafts,  his  looseneil  bow. 
The  silken  fillet  that  around 
His  waggish  eyes  in  sport  he  wound. 

But  we  shall  mourn  him  long,  and  miss 
His  ready  smile,  his  ready  kiss. 


The  patter  of  his  little  feet. 
Sweet    frowns    and   stamliiered   phrases 
sweet ; 

And  graver  looks,  serene  and  high, 
A  light  of  heaven  in  that  young  eye: 
All  tiiese  shall  haunt  us  till  the  heart 
Shallache  andache,  — and  tears  will  start. 

The  bow,  the  band,  shall  fall  to  du»>t ; 
The  shining  arrows  waste  with  rust ; 
And  all  of  Love  that  earth  can  claim 
Be  but  a  memory  and  a  name. 

Not  thus  his  nobler  part  shall  dwell, 
A  ])risoner  in  this  narrow  t^ell ; 
But  he,  whom  now  we  hide  from  men 
in  the  dark  ground,  shall  live  again, — 

Shall  break  these  clods,  a  form  of  light, 
With  nobler  mien  and  jiurer  sight, 
.\nd  in  the  eternal  glory  stand 
Highest  and  nearest  God's  right  hand. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT 
BROWNINa. 

[1809-1861.] 

THE  SLEEP. 

Of  all  the  thouglits  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar. 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace  surjjassing  this,  — 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep"  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  Ite  unmoved  ; 
The  ])oet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  swee]) ; 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse ; 
The    monarch's    crown,    to    light     the 

brows  ? 
"He  giveth  ///.v  beloved  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved; 
A  little  (lust,  to  overweep ; 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake. 
1  sleep." 


'  He  giveth  His  beloved 


"Sleep soft,  beloved  !"  we  sometimessay. 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 


ELIZABETH   BAKRETT   BROWNING. 


191 


Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep. 
But  nevei'  doletul  dreaui  again 
.Shall  break  the  liajipy  slumber  when 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

0  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 
0  delved  gold,  the  wallers  heaj) ! 

0  strife,  0  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
Moie  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Ay,  men  may  w-onder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  tliinking,  feeling  man. 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep ; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard,  — 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show. 
That  see  through  tears  the  nuimmersleap. 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close. 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  re]>ose 
Who  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep!" 

And,  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall 

be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  "Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall, — 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


BERTHA   IN   THE  LANE. 

Put  the  broidery-frame  away. 
For  my  sewing  is  all  done  ! 

The  last  thread  is  used  to-day, 
And  1  need  not  join  it  on. 
Though  the  clock  stands  at  the  noon, 
I  am  wenry  !  I  have  sewn,    , 
Sweet,  for  thee,  a  wedding-gown. 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  bed. 

And  stand  near  me,  dearest-sweet ! 
Do  not  slirink  nor  be  afraid. 
Blushing  with  a  sudden  heat ! 
.  No  one  standeth  in  the  street !  — 


By  God's  love  I  go  to  meet, 
Love  I  thee  with  love  complete. 

Lean  thy  face  down  !  droj)  it  in 
These  two  hands,  that  1  uva.y  hold 

'Twixt  their  palms  thy  cheek  and  chin, 
Stroking  back  the  curls  of  gold. 
'T  is  a  fair,  fair  face,  in  sooth,  — 
Larger  eyes  and  redder  mouth 
Than  mine  w  ere  in  my  first  youth ! 

Thou  art  younger  by  seven  years  — 
Ah  !  so  bashful  at  my  gaze 

That  the  lashes,  hung  wiih  tears, 
Grow  too  heavy  to  upraise  ! 
I  would  wound  thee  by  no  touch 
Which  thy  shyness  feels  as  such — 
Dost  thou  mind  me,  dear,  so  much? 

Have  I  not  been  nigh  a  mother 
To  thy  sweetness," — tell  me,  dear, 

Have  we  not  loved  one  another 
Tenderly,  from  year  to  year? 
Since  our  dying  mother  mild 
Said,  with  accents  undefiled, 
"Child,  be  mother  to  this  child  !" 

Mother,  mother,  up  in  heaven, 
Stand  up  on  the  jasper  sea. 

And  be  witness  I  have  given 
All  the  gifts  requirecl  of  me; — 
Hope    that    blessed    me,    bliss    that 

crowned. 
Love  that  left  me  with  a  wound. 
Life  itself,  that  turned  around  ! 

Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind. 
Thou  art  standing  in  the  room, 

In  a  molten  glory  shrined. 
That  rays  off  into  the  gloom  ! 
But  thy  smile  is  bright  and  bleak. 
Like  cold  waves,  —  I  cannot  speak ; 
I  sob  in  it,  and  giow  weak. 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 
One  hour  longer  from  my  soul. 

For  I  still  am  thinking  of 

Earth's  waini-beating  joy  and  dole  ! 
On  my  finger  is  a  ring 
Which  [  still  sec  glittering. 
When  the  night  hides  everything. 

Little  sister,  thou  art  pale  ! 

Ah,  I  have  a  wandering  brain, — 
But  I  lose  that  fever-bale. 

Ami  my  thoughts  grow  calm  again. 

Lean  down  closer,  closer  still ! 


192 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


I  have  words  thine  ear  to  fill, 
And  would  kiss  thee  at  my  will. 

Dear,  I  heard  thee  in  the  spring, 
Tlice  and  liobcrt,  throngh  the  trees, 

When  we  all  went  feathering 

Boughs  of  May-bloom  for  the  bees. 
Do  not  start  so  !  think  instead 
How  tiie  sunshine  overhead 
Seemed  to  trickle  through  the  shade. 

What  a  day  it  was,  that  day ! 

Hills  and  vales  did  openly 
Seem  to  heave  and  throb  away, 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky ; 

And  the  silence,  as  it  stood 

In  the  glory's  golden  ilood, 

Audibly  did  bud —  and  bud  ! 

Through  the  winding  hedge-rows  green. 
How  we  wandered,  I  and  you,  — 

With  the  bowery  tops  shut  in, 

And  the  gates  that  showed  the  view ; 
How  we  talked  there  !  thrushes  soft 
Sang  our  pauses  out,  or  oft 
Bleatings  took  them  from  the  croft. 

Till  the  pleasure,  grown  too  strong, 
]>eft  nie  muter  evermore; 

And,  the  winding  road  being  long, 
I  walked  out  of  sight,  before  ; 
And  so,  wrapt  in  musings  foml, 
Issued  (past  the  wayside  pond) 
On  the  meadow-lands  beyond. 

I  sat  down  beneath  the  beech 
Which  leans  over  to  the  lane, 

And  the  far  sound  of  your  speech 
Did  not  promise  any  pain  ; 
And  I  blessed  you  full  ami  free. 
With  a  smile  stooped  tenderly 
O'er  the  May-Howers  on  my  knee. 

But  the  sound  grew  into  word 

As  the  speakers  drew  more  near — 

Sweet,  forgive  me  that  I  heard 
What  you  wished  me  not  to  hear. 
Do  not  wee[)  so,  do  not  shake  — 
(>,  I  heard  thee.  Bertha,  make 
Good,  true  answers  for  my  sake. 

Yes,  and  he  too  1  let  him  stand 

In  thy  Ihdughts,  untouched  by  blame. 

Could  lie  help  it,  if  my  hand 

He  had  claimed  with  liasty  claim  ! 
That  was  wrong  perhaps,  but  then 
Such  things  be,  — and  will,  again  ! 
Women  cannot  judge  for  men. 


Had  he  seen  thee,  when  he  swore 
He  would  love  but  me  alone? 

Thou  wert  absent,  — sent  before 
To  our  kin  in  Sidmouth  town. 
When  he  saw  thee,  who  art  best 
Past  compare,  and  loveliest, 
He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

Could  we  blame  him  with  grave  words, 
Thou  and  I,  dear,  if  we  might  ? 

Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds 
Flying  straightway  to  the  light ; 
Mine  are  older.  —  Hush  !  —  look  out  — 
Tp  tlie  street!     Is  none  without? 
How  the  poplar  swings  about ! 

And  that  hour  —  beneath  the  beech  — 
WJien  I  listened  in  a  dream, 

And  he  said,  in  liis  deep  speech. 
That  he  owed  me  all  esteem,  — 
Eacdi  word  swam  in  on  my  brain 
With  a  dim,  dilating  pain. 
Till  it  burst  with  that  last  strain. 

I  fell  flooded  with  a  dark. 
In  the  silence  of  a  swoon  : 

When  I  rose,  still,  cold,  and  stark, 
There  was  night,  —  I  saw  the  moon  ; 
And  the  stars,  each  in  its  place. 
And  the  May-blooms  on  the  grass, 
Seemed  to  wonder  what  I  was. 

And  I  walked  as  if  apart 

From  myself  when  I  could  stand. 

And  I  pitied  m  v  own  heart. 
As  if  I  held  it  in  my  hand 
Somewhat  coldly,  with  a  sense 
Of  fulfilleil  bcni'volence. 
And  a  "  Poor  thinij  "  n(>'rlii'enee. 

And  I  answered  coldly  too. 

When  you  met  me  at  the  door ; 

And  I  only  heaid  the  dew 

Dripping  from  me  to  the  floor; 
And  the  flowers  I  bade  you  see 
Were  too  withered  for  the  bee,  — 
As  my  life,  lienceforth,  for  me. 

Do  not  weep  so^  dear  —  heart-warm  ! 
It  was  best  as  it  befell ! 

If  I  say  he  did  me  harm, 

I  speak  wild,  —  I  am  not  well. 
All  his  words  \vere  kind  and  good,  — 
He  esteemed  me  !     Only  bl  od 
Runs  so  faint  in  womanhood. 

Then  I  always  was  too  grave, 
Liked  the  saddest  ballads  sung, 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING. 


193 


With  that  look,  besides,  we  have 
In  our  faces  who  die  young. 
I  liad  died,  dear,  all  the  same,  — 
Life's  long,  joyous,  jostling  game 
Is  too  loud  for  my  meek  shame. 

We  are  so  unlike  each  other, 

Thou  and  1,  that  none  could  guess 

We  were  children  of  one  mother, 
]jut  for  nnitual  tenderness. 
Thou  art  rose-lined  I'rom  the  cold, 
And  meant,  veril}',  to  hold 
Life's  pure  pleasures  manifold. 

I  am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

Close  beside  a  rose-tree's  root ! 

Whosoe'er  would  reach  the  rose 
Ti'eads  the  crocus  underfoot  ; 
I,  like  May-bloom  on  thorn-tree, 
Thou,  like  merry  summer-bee  ! 
Fit,  that  I  be  plucked  for  thee. 

Yet  who  plucks  me? — no  one  mourus; 
I  have  lived  my  season  out. 

And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns, 
Which  I  could  not  live  without. 
Sweet,  be  merry !     How  the  light 
Comes  and  goes !     If  it  be  night, 
Keep  the  candles  in  my  sight. 

Are  there  footsteps  at  the  door? 
Look  out  quickl}'.     Yea  or  nay? 

Some  one  might  be  waiting  lor 
Some  last  word  that  I  might  say. 
Nay  ?     So  best !  —  So  angels  would 
Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road, 
•Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

Colder  grow  my  hands  and  feet : 
When  1  wear  the  shroud  I  made, 

Let  the  folds  lie  straight  and  neat. 
And  the  rosemary  be  spread. 
That  if  any  friend  should  come, 
(To  see  thee,  sweet ! )  all  the  room 
May  be  lifted  out  of  gloom. 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 
On  my  hand  this  little  ring. 

Which  at  nights,  when  others  sleep, 
I  can  still  see  glittering. 
Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight, 
In  the  grave, —  where  it  will  light 
All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night. 

On  that  grave  drop  not  a  tear! 

Else,  though  fathom-deep  the  place, 
Thiough  the  woollen  shroud  I  wear 

I  shall  feel  it  on  my  face. 
13 


Eather  smile  there,  blessed  one, 
Thinking  of  me  in  the  sun,  — 
Or  forget  me,  smiling  on  ! 

Art  thou  near  me?  nearer?  so! 
Kiss  me  close  u]wn  the  eyes. 

That  the  earthly  light  may  go 
\  Sweetly  as  it  used  to  lise. 
When  I  watched  the  moining  gray 
Strike,  betwixt  the  hills,  tlie  way 
He  was  sure  to  come  that  day. 

So  —  no  more  vain  words  be  said  ! 
The  hosannas  nearer  roll  — 

Mother,  smile  now  on  thy  dead,  — • 
I  am  death-strong  in  my  soul! 
Mystic  Dove  alit  on  cross. 
Guide  the  poor  bird  of  the  snows 
Through  the  snow-wind  above  loss ! 

Jesus,  Victim,  comprehending 
Love's  divine  self-abnegation. 

Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending, 
And  absorb  the  poor  libation  ! 
Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher. 
Up  through  angels'  liands  of  hre  !  — 
I  aspire  while  1  expire ! 


A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT. 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 
Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  liver? 

Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban. 

Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a 
goat. 

And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river? 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep,  cool  bed  of  the  river. 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran. 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay. 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away. 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 
While  turbidly  flowed  the  river. 

And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can 

With  his  hard,  bleak  steel  at  the  patient 
reed. 

Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river!) 


194 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Then  drew  the  pith  like  the  heart  of  a 

nmii, 
Steadily  IVom  the  outside  rinij, 
Then  notelied  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sate  by  the  river. 

"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god 
Pan, 
(Laughed  while  he  sate  by  the  river!) 
"The  only  way  since  gods  began 
To   make   sweet  music,  they  could  suc- 
ceed." 
Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in 
the  rei'd, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  0  Pan, 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river ! 
I'liuding  sweet,  0  great  god  Pan  ! 
Tlie  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 
To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  num. 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  the 
pain,  — 

For  the  reed  that  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 


COWPER'S  GRAVE. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned  may 
feel  the  heart's  decaying. 

It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may 
weep  amid  their  praying: 

Yet  let  tlu!  grief  and  humldeness,  as  low- 
as  silence  languish ! 

Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm  to 
whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

0   poets !    from  a  maniac's  tongue   was 

poured  th»  deathless  singing ! 
O  Christians !    at  your  cross  of  hope  a 

hopeless  hanil  was  clinging ! 
0  men !  this  man  in  brotherhood  your 

weary  yiaths  begiiiliug. 
Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  yon  peace, 

and  died  while  ye  were  smiling! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 
through  dimming  tears  his  story. 

How  discord  on  tiie  music  fell,  and  dark- 
ness on  the  glory. 


And  how,  when  one  by  one  sweet  sounds 
and  wandering  lights  departed. 

He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so 
broken-hearted ; 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the  poet's 

higli  vocation, 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down  in 

meeker  adoration  ; 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise 

or  gootl  forsaken ; 
Named  softly  as  tlie  household  name  of 

one  whom  God  hath  taken. 

With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I  learn 

to  think  upon  him. 
With   meekness   that  is  gratefulness  to 

God  whose  heaven  hath  won  him, — 
Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud  to 

His  own  love  to  blind  him ; 
But  gently  led  the   blind  along  where 

breath  and  bird  could  find  him ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain 
such  quick  poetic  senses 

As  hills  have  language  i"or,  and  stars 
harmonious  influences ! 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  kept 
his  within  its  number ; 

And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  re- 
freshed him  like  a  slumber. 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 

to  share  his  home-caresses, 
ITplooking  to  his  human  eyes  with  sylvan 

tendernesses  : 
The   very   world,  by    God's   constraint, 

from  falsehood's  ways  removing. 
Its  women  and  its  men  became,  beside 

him,  true  and  loving. 

P>ut  though  in  blindness  he  remained 

unconscious  of  that  guiding. 
And  things  provided  came  without  the 

sweet  sense  of  providing, 
He   testitied    this   solemn    truth,   while 

frenzy  desolated,  — 
Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy  whom  only 

God  cieated ! 

Like  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not  his 

niotlier  while  she  blesses, 
And  (lri)])s  ujion   his  burning  brow  the 

coolness  of  her  kisses; 
That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around,  "My 

mother!  where 's  my  mother?"  — 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  deeds  could 

come  from  any  other!  — 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  —  ALFRED   TENNYSO/ 


The  fever  gone,  with  h-ajis  of  heart  lie 

sees  lier  bending  o'er  him  ; 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the 

unweary  love  she  bore  him  !  — 
Thus  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream  his 

life's  long  fever  gave  him, 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  Eyes,  which 

closed  in  death  to  save  him  ! 

Thus  ?    0,  not  tJiKS  !  no  type  of  earth  can 

image  that  awaking, 
"Wherein  he  scarcely  lieard  the  chant  of 


seraphs,  round  him  brcakii 


K' 


Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb  of  soul 

from  body  parted ; 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew  "My 

Saviour  !  not  deserted  !" 

Deserted!  who  hath  dreamt  that  when 

the  cross  in  darkness  rested 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face,  no  love 

was  manifested  ? 
What   frantic  hands  outstretched  have 

e'er  the  atoning  drops  averted, 
What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the 

soul,  that  one  should  be  deserted  ? 

Deserted !  God  could  separate  from  his 

own  essence  rather : 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between  the 

righteous  Son  and  Father ; 
Yea,  once.  Immanuel's  orphaned  cry  his 

universe  hath  shaken,  — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless,  "My  God,  I 

am  forsaken !" 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips  amid  his 

lost  creation. 
That,  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use  those 

words  of  desolation  ; 
That  earth's  worst  frenzies,  marring  lioiie, 

should  mar  not  hope's  fruition. 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see  his 

rapture  in  a  vision  ! 


And  near  the  sacred  gate, 

With  longing  eyes  I  wait, ' 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming; 
They've  hushed  the  minster  bell: 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell ; 

She  's  coming,  she 's  coming ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last. 
Timid  and  stepping  fast. 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast. 
She  comes,  —she 's  here,  she 's  past. 

May  Heaven  go  w  ith  her  ! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint, 

Meekly  and  duly ; 
I  will  not  enter  there. 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Kound  the  forbidden  ])lace. 

Lingering  a  minute 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE 
THACKERAY. 

[1811-1863.] 

AT  THE  CHITRCH  GATE. 

Although  T  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 
Ofttimes  I  hover ; 


ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

MARIANA. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Weri^  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all. 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden -wall. 
The  broken  sheds  looked  sad  and  strange, 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch. 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary. 

He  conieth  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary; 
1  would  that  I  were  dead!" 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried  ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Eillier  at  morn  or  eventide. 


196 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


After  tlio  flitting  of  the  bats, 

AVhcii  thickest  (hiik  did  tiance  the  sky, 
She  drew  lier  casenieiit-eurtaiii  hy, 
And  ghxneed  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,  "Tlie  night  is  dreary, 

He  eonicth  not,"  she  said; 
She  saiil,  "1  am  aweary,  aweary, 
•  I  would  tliat  I  were  dead!" 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Waking  she  lieanl  the  night-fowl  crow; 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 
.  From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her  :  witliout  hojie  of  change. 
In  sleep  slie  seemed  to  walk  forlorn. 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonelj-  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "The  day  is  dreary, 

He  eometli  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "I  am  awear}'^,  aweary. 
And  I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blackened  waters  slept. 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small. 

The  clustered  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hani  by  a  poplar  shook  alway. 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark, 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  dark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gra}'. 
She  only  said,  "ily  life  is  dreary, 

He  conieth  not,"  she  said; 

She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! " 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  th(!  shrill  winds  were  up  ami  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  an^l  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  niOon  was  veiy  low, 

Andwild  winds  bound  witliintheircell, 
Tiie  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  lirow. 

She  only  said,  "Tiie  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  .said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead!" 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 
Tlie  doors  upon  their  hinges  creaked, 

The  blue  fly  sung  i'  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 
Behind      the     monhh^ring     wainscot 
.shrieked, 

Or  from  tlie  crevice  peered  about. 

Old  faces  glimmered  througli  the  doors. 
Old  footsteps  tnxl  the  ujipcr  floors, 

Old  voices  called  lier  fiom  without. 


She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary, 
He  Cometh  not,"  she  said; 

She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
1  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Whicli  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense  ;  but  most  she  loatlied  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunlieam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  "I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not'come,"  she  said; 
She  wept,  "I  tim  awearv,  aweary, 
0  God,  that  I  were  dead!" 


"BREAK,  BREAK,   BREAK  I" 

Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea! 
And  1  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  witii  his  sister  at  play  ! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


MEMORY. 

I  CT.TMB  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  tind  no  i)lace  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend  ; 

No  gi'ay  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 
Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed. 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 

Or  shee])walk  up  the  windy  wold  ; 

Noi-  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill. 
Nor  quai-ry  trenched  along  the  hill. 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw. 


ALFKED    TENNYSON. 


107 


llnwatched,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway, 
The  tender  blossom  Hutter  down  ; 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown. 

This  maple  burn  itself  away ; 

Unloved,  the  sunflower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed. 
And  many  a  rose-caiiiation  feed 

With  summer  spiee  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar. 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain. 
At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  Wain 

Is  twisting  round  the-polar  star ; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove. 

And  Hood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake  ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child  ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  ail  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


DOUBT. 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 
Sweet-hearted,  you,   whose  light-blue 

eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies. 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed. 
Who  touched  a  jarring  lyre  at  first. 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds. 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt. 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 


He 


doulits 


and    gathered 


fought    his 
strength. 

He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  sjiectres  of  the  miml 
And  laid  them  :  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own  ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night. 


Which    makes   the  darkness  and  the 
light. 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Siinii"s  peaks  of  old. 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Although  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


THE  LARGER  HOPE. 

0  YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed. 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void. 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
Tiiat  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  —  far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream  :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature,  then,  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  seci'et  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  findin'g  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  ti'od, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 


198 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 
That  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  (diatf,  and  call 
To  wliat  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


"So  careful  of  the  type?"  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliH"  and  (iuarrit;d  stone 
She  cries,  "  A  thousand  types  are  gone : 

1  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  dcatli : 
Tlie  spirit  docs  but  mean  tlie  breath  : 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seemed  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  Ids  eyes, 
Who  rolled  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Wlio  built  hira  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  wa.s  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law,  — 
Tliougli  Xatvne,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravin,  shrieked  against  his  creed,  — 

"Wlio  loved,  who  suffered  countless  ills. 
Who  Ijattled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  V)lo\vn  about  the  desert  dust. 

Or  sealed  within  the  iron  hills? 

No  more?     A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  disi?ord.     Dragons  of  the  prime, 
Tliat  tare  each  other  in  their  slime. 

Were  mellow  music  matched  with  him. 

0  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

0  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless ! 

Wiiat  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


GARDEN   SONG. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  tiie  black  bat,  niirlit,  lias  flown, 

("oine  into  tiie  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 

And    the    woodbine    spices   are   wafted 
abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  ro.ses  blown. 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves. 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky. 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  .she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  tiute,  violin,  bassoon ; 
All  niglit  has  the   casement  jessamine 
stirred 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  .saiil  to  the  lily,  "There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  tiie  setting  moon  are  gone. 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  tlie  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night  goes 
In  liaV)ble  and  revel  and  wine. 

0  young  lord-lover,  what  si  if  hs  are  those, 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine? 

But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the 
rose, 
"For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 
blood, 
As  the  music  (dashed  in  the  hall ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 

For  1  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left 
so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 
As  the  jiimjieiind  dozecl  on  the  lea; 

But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 


EALril    WALDO    EMERSON. 


199 


Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
Tlic  lilifs  and  loses  were  all  awake, 
They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done. 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls. 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls, 
To  the  Howers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  si)lendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is 
near" ; 

And   the  white   rose  weeps,  "She   is 
late"; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear"  ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "1  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tivad. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  bent, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


BUGLE  SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying. 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

0  hark,  0  hear!  how  thin  and  clear. 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
0  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  sear 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  reply- 
ing: 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 
They  faint  on  hill  or  field  oi'  liver: 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 


Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set   the  wild  echoes 

And  answei-,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  APOLOGY. 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude. 
That  1  walk  alone  in  giove and  glen  ; 

I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook ; 
Each  cloud  that  tloatetl  in  the  sky 

Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band. 
For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought; 

Every  aster  in  my  hand 
Goes  home  loaded  w  itli  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  't  is  figured  in  tht;  flowers ; 

Was  never  seciet  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homewaid  brought  the  oxen  strong ; 
A  second  crop  thy  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 


TO  EVA. 

O  fair  and  stately  maid,  whose  eyes 
Were  kindled  in  tlieii])])er  skies 

At  the  same  torch  that  lighted  mine; 
For  so  I  must  inter]u-et  still 
Thy  sweet  dominion  o'er  my  will, 

A  sympathy  divine. 

Ah,  let  me  blameless  gaze  u]ion 
Features  that  seem  at  heart  my  own  ; 

Nor  fear  those  watchful  sentinels, 
Who  charm  the  more  their  glance  forltids. 
Chaste-glowing,  underneath  their  lids. 

With  fire  that  draws  while  it  repels. 


200 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


THINE    EYES   STILL  SHONE. 

Think  eyes  still  slione  for  me,  though  far 
I  lonely  roveil  the  laud  or  sea: 

As  I  behoKl  yon  evening  star, 
Which  yet  beholds  not  nie. 

This  morn  I  climbed  the  misty  hill. 
And  roamed  the  pastures  through  ; 

How  danci-d  thy  form  before  my  jiath, 
Amidst  the  deep-eyed  dew  ! 

"When  the  red-bird  spread  his  sable  wing. 
And  showed  his  side  of  flame, — 

"When  the  rosebud  ripened  to  the  rose, — 
In  both  I  read  thv  name. 


EACH  AND  ALL. 

Little  thinks,  in  the   field,  yon   red- 
cloaked  clown 
Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  chann; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 
Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine 

height ; 
Nor  knowe-st  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 
All  are  needed  b)'  each  one; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 
I  thouglit  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven. 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 
1  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even  ; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now. 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and 

sky;  — 
He  sang  to  my  ear, — they  sang  to  my 

eye. 
The  deliiate  .shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 
The  huV)bles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave ; 
.\nd  tile  Itellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
(Jreeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 
I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  fetched  my  sea-born  trea.sures  home ; 
]5ut  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 
"With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild 

uproar. 
The  lover  watched  liis  graceful  maid, 
As  mid  the  virgin  train  she  stiayed, 
Nor  knew  her  beauly'a  best  attire 


Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 
At  la.st  she  came  to  liis  hermitage. 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the 

cage  ;— 
The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 
Then  I  said,  "I  covet  truth; 
Heauty  is  uniipe  chililhood's  cheat ; 
I    leave   it   behind   with   the  games  of 

youth." 
As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 
Theground-jjine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 
Kunning  over  the  club-mo.ss  burrs ; 
I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath  ; 
Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 
Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 
Full  of  light  and  of  deity  ; 
Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard. 
The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird  ;  — 
Beauty  thiough  my  senses  stole  ; 
I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


THE  PROBLEM. 

I  I.IKE  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl, 
I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul. 
And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains  or  pensive  smiles, 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 
Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure, 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought; 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle ; 
Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  oM ; 
The  litanies  of  nations  came. 
Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 
Fp  from  the  burning  core  Ijelow,  — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe. 
The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome, 
And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 
Wrought  in  a  syd  sincerity. 
Him.self  from  Ood  he  could  not  free; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew; 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  wood- 
bird's  nest 
Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast ; 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell. 
Painting  with  morn  each  annunl  cell; 
Or  how  the  sacred  itine-tree  adds 


EALPH   WALDO    EMERSON. 


201 


To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ? 
Such  and  so  prcw  these  lioly  ]iil('S, 
^Vhilst  love  and  terror  laid  tlie  tih'.s. 
Eartli  itroudly  wears  the  I'artlienou 
As  the  best  fjeiii  uiion  lier  zone  ; 
And  morning  opes  with  iiaste  her  lids 
To  gaze  upon  tin;  Tyranuds; 
O'er  Enghind's  Abbeys  bends  the  sky 
As  on  its  friends  with  kindred  eye; 
For,  out  of  Tluniglit's  interior  sphere 
These  woUiUrs  ro.-ie  to  upjier  air, 
And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  i>lace, 
Adopted  tiiem  into  her  race, 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
Witii  Andes  and  witii  Ararat. 

Tliese  temjih's  grew  as  grows  the  grass ; 
Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 
The  yiassive  I\laster  lent  his  liand 
To  tlie  vast  Soul  tliat  o'er  liim  jilanned. 
And  the   same   power   that   reared   the 

shrine, 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Ever  tlie  iiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  llame  the  countless  host, 
Trances    the    lieart    through    chanting 

choirs, 
And   tlirougli    the  jiriest   the  mind  in- 
spires. 
Tlie  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
"Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken  ; 
The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told. 
In  groves  of  oak  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  (ihost 
The  heedless  woild  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  wliat  say  the  Fathers  wise,  — 
The  book  itself  before  me  lies, — 
Old  C'hrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  wlio  blent  both  in  his  line. 
The  younger  Golden  Lips  or  mines, 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines; 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear, 
1  see  his  cowled  portrait  deal. 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishojj  be. 


BOSTON  HYMN. 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 
To  the  watching  Pilgrims  came. 

As  they  sat  In"  the  seaside. 

And  tilled  their  he;irts  with  llame. 

Goil  siii.l,  I  am  tired  of  kings, 
1  sutler  them  no  more; 


Up  to  my  ear  the  morning  brings 
The  outrage  of  the  poor. 

Think  ye  T  made  this  ball 

A  field  of  havoc,  and  war. 
Where  tyrants  great  and  tyrants  small 

Might  harry  the  weak  and  poor? 

My  angel,  —  his  name  is  Freedom, — 
Choose  him  to  be  your  king; 

He  shall  cut  jiathways  east  and  west, 
And  fend  you  with  his  wing. 

Lo  !  I  uncover  the  land. 

Which  I  hid  of  old  time  in  the  West, 
As  the  sculptor  unt'overs  the  statue 

When  he  has  wrouglit  his  best; 

I  show  Columbia,  of  the  rocks 
Which  dip  their  foot  in  the  seas. 

And  soar  to  the  air-borne  tiocks 
Of  clouds,  and  the  boreal  lleece.  , 

1  will  divide  my  goods ; 

Call  ill  the  wretch  and  the  slave : 
None  shall  rule  but  the  humble, 

And  none  but  Toil  shall  have. 

I  will  have  never  a  noble, 

No  lineage  counted  great; 
Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 

Shall  constitute  a  state. 

Go,  cut  down  trees  in  the  forest, 
And  trim  the  straightest  boughs  ; 

Cut  down  trees  in  the  forest. 
And  build  me  a  wooden  house. 

Call  the  people  together, 

The  young  men  and  the  sires. 

The  digger  in  the  harvest-held. 
Hireling,  and  him  that  hires; 

And  here  in  a  ]iine  state-house 
They  shall  choose  men  to  rule 

In  every  needful  faculty. 

In  church  and  state  and  school. 

Lo,  now  !  if  these  ]ioor  men 
Can  govern  the  land  and  sea. 

And  make  just  laws  below  the  sun, 
As  jdanets  faithful  be. 

And  ye  shall  succor  men  ; 

'T  is  nobleness  to  serve  ; 
Help  them  who  cannot  help  again: 

Beware  from  right  to  swerve. 


202 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


I  break  your  bonds  ami  masterships, 

And  I  uucbain  the  slave  : 
Free  be  his  iieait  and  hand  henceforth 

As  wind  and  wandering  wave. 

I  cause!  fioni  every  creature 

His  j)roper  good  to  flow  ; 
As  much  as  he  is  and  doeth, 

So  much  he  shall  bestow. 

But,  laying  hands  on  another, 
To  coin  his  labor  and  sweat. 

He  goes  in  pawn  to  his  victim 
For  eternal  years  in  debt. 

To-day  unbind  the  captive. 

So  only  are  ye  unbound  ; 
Lift  up  a  people  from  the  dust. 

Trump  of  their  rescue,  sound ! 

Paj^  ransom  to  the  owner. 
And  fill  the  bag  to  tlie  brim. 

Who  is  the  owner?  Tlie  slave  is  owner, 
And  ever  was.     Pay  him. 

O  North  '  give  him  beauty  for  rags. 
And  honor,  0  South !  for  his  shame ; 

Nevada  !  coin  tliy  golden  crags 
With  Freedom's  image  and  name. 

Up !  and  the  dusky  race 

That  sat  in  darkness  long,  — • 

Be  swift  their  feet  as  antelopes. 
And  as  behemoth  strong. 

Come,  East  and  West  and  North, 

By  races,  as  snowflakes, 
And  carry  my  purpose  forth. 

Which  ncitlier  halts  nor  shakes. 

My  will  fullille.l  sliall  be, 
For,  in  dayliglit  or  in  dark, 

My  thunderbolt  has  eyes  to  see 
His  way  home  to  the  mark. 


THE  SOUL'S  PROPHECY. 

All  before  us  lies  the  way ; 

Give  the  ])ast  unto  the  wind; 
All  before  ns  is  the  day. 

Night  and  darkness  are  behind. 

Eilrn  witli  its  angels  bold, 

Lovi^  and  ilow<'rs  and  coolest  sea. 
Is  less  an  ancient  story  told 

Than  a  glowing  prophecy. 


*  In  tlie  s])irit's  perfect  air. 

In  the  jiassions  tame  and  kind, 
Innocence  from  selfish  care, 
The  real  Eden  wc  shall  find. 

When  the  soul  to  sin  hath  died, 
True  and  beautiful  and  sound. 

Then  all  earth  is  sanctified, 
Upsprings  paradise  around. 

From  the  spirit-land  afar 

All  disturl)ing  force  shall  flee; 

Stir,  nor  toil,  nor  liope  shall  mar 
Its  immortal  unity. 


EDGAR  A.  POE. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1811  -  1849.] 

THE  BELLS. 

Heak  the  sledges  with  the  bells,  — 
Silver  bells,  — 
What  a  world  of  meniment  their  melody 
foretells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhym(>. 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically 

Wfilis 

From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
I?ells,  bells,  bells,— 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of 
the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wcnlding  bells, 
Golden  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  iiappiness  their  harmony 
foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  tiiey  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while 
she  gloats 
On  the  moon  ! 
O,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously 
wells  1 


EGBERT   BROWNING. 


203 


How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  tiie  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Oftiie  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells,— 
To  the  rliyming  and  the  chiming  of  the 
bells ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells,  — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbu- 
lenoy  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  onl}'  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune. 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy 

of  the  tire. 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf 
and  frantic  lire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never. 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
0,  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
What  a  horroi-  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging. 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  eb1)s  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling. 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells. 
By  the   sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the 
anger  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells,— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the 
bells  ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their 
monody  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  tlie  night. 
How  we  shiver  with  alfright 


At   the   melancholy  menace  of  their 
tone ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people,  — ah,  the  people,  — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone,  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman,  — ■ 
They  are  neithei-  brute  nor  human,  — 

They  are  Ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 
A  pfean  from  the  bells! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  jjsean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells; 
Keejung  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  ])ffian  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keei)ing  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  hapjiy  Runic  rliynie. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the 
bells. 


EGBERT  BROWNING. 


EVELYN  HOPE. 

Beal'TIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium- 
flower. 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think,  — 


204 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTUlilES. 


The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 
Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's 
chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had   scarcely  heard  my 
name,  — 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  :  heside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  eaies, 

And  now  was  (piiet,  now  astir, — 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  lire,  and  dew,  — 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

Aud  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged 
so  wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside  ? 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant  as  miglity  to  make. 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  tlielove,  — 

I  claim  you  still,  formy  own  love'ssake  ! 
Didayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Tluough  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a 
few,  — 
Mu(  h  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come,  — at  last  it  will. 
When,   Evelyn  Hope,   what  meant,  I 
shall  say. 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 
Tliat  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  1  shall  divine. 
And  vour  mouth  of  your  own  gera- 
nmm  s  red,  — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine. 
In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's 
stead. 

I  have  lived,  I  shall  say,  so  much  since 
then. 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times. 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  iin'ii, 

Kansacked     the     ages,     spoiled     the 
climes  ; 
Vet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope. 

Hither  I  niissed  or  itself  missed  me  — 
And  1  want  and  find  you,  Ev(dyn  Hojie! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see  ! 


I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  tlie  while  ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold,  — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank 
young  smile 
And   the  retl   young  mouth   and  the 
hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush,  —  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to 
keep,  — 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret !  go  to  sleep; 
You   will    wake,  aud   remember,  and 
understand. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

Grow  old  along  with  me  ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be. 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was 

made : 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half;    trust  God:  see 

all,  nor  be  afraid!" 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers. 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours. 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ?" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars. 
It  yearned,  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends, 
transcends  them  all ! " 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears, 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years. 
Do  I  remonstrate,  —  folly  wide  the  mark  ! 
Eather  1  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Fiiushed  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by 
a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men  ; 
Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird  ?    Frets  doubt 
the  maw-crammed  beast? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 
To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  jiartake,  efi'ect  and  not  receive! 
A  s]iark  disturbs  our  clod  ; 
Neai'er  we  hold  (if  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take, 
I  must  believe. 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


205 


Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  sniootliness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nur  stand, 

but  go ! 
Be  our  joys  three  pai'ts  pain  ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never 

grudge  the  throe ! 

For  thence —  a  paradox 
AViiicli  comforts  while  it  mocks  — 
Shall  lite  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 
AVhat  I  aspired  to  be. 
And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would 
not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs 

want  play? 
To  man,  propose  this  test,  — 
Thy  body  at  its  best. 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its 

lone  way  ? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 
I  own  th.o  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  jierfection  every  turn  : 
Eyes,  ears  took  iii  their  dole, 
Bi'ain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once,  "How- 
good  to  live  and  learn  ?" 

Fot  once  beat,  "Praise  be  Thine  ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  Power,  shall  see  Love  perfect 

too ; 
Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  : 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 
Maker,  remake,  complete,  —  I  trust  what 

thou  shalt  do!" 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh  ; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for 

rest : 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute,  — gain  most,  as 

Ave  did  best ! 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

1  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon 

the  whole!" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 


Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now, 
than  flesh  helps  soul !" 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  readied  its 

term  : 
Thence  shall  I  jiass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute ;  a  God  though 

in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and 

new : 
Fearless  and  unperplexed. 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to 

indue. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby  ; 
Be  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold  : 
And  1  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know, 
being  old. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray  : 
A  whisper  from  the  Mest 
Shoots,  "Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Takeitandtry  itsworth  :  here  dies  another 
day. 

So,  still  within  this  life. 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife. 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at 

last, 
"Tliis  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 
That  acquiescence  vain  : 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved 

the  Past.'"' 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day  : 
Heie,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  th(!  fu'oper  craft,  tricks  of  the 
tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth. 


206 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Toward   making,  than   repose  on  aught 

found  made ; 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age ;  wait  death 

nor  be  afraid ! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

lie  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand 

thine  own. 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let 

thee  feel  alone. 

Bs  there,  for  once  and  all. 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his   station   in   the 

Past! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned. 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Kight?     Let  "age   speak   the   truth  and 

give  us  peace  at  last ! 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate. 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  re- 
ceive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

^[atch  me  :  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  1,  that :  whom  shall 
my  soul  believe? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had 

the  price ; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  wotlif  laid  its  hand. 
Found   straiglitway  to   its   mind,  could 

value  in  a  trice  : 

But  all,  the  world's  coai'se  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  u\>  the  main  accoimt ; 
All  instincts  immature. 
All  purposes  unsure. 
That  weiglied  not  as  his  work,  j'et  swelled 
the  man's  aino mt : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  nairow  act. 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and 

escaped ; 
All  I  could  never  be, 


All  men  ignored  in  me. 
This  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel 
the  pitcher  shaped. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor  !  and  feel 

Why  time  s[iins  fast,  why  passive  lies  out 

clay,  — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  pro[)ound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;  the  Past 

gone,  seize  to-day  ! " 

Fool !     All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth   changes,  but  thy  soul   and   God 

stand  sure : 
What  entered  into  thee. 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops :  Potter 

and  clay  endure. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance. 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain 

arrest : 
Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent. 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently 

impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and 

press  ? 
What  though,  about  thy  rim. 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow   out,   in   graver  mood,  obey  the 

sterner  stress? 

Look  not  thou  down,  but  up ! 

To  uses  of  a  cu[). 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash,  and  trum- 
pet's peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

Tlie  JLaster's  lips  aglow  ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what 
needst  thou  with  earth's  wheel  ? 

But  1  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men  ; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was 

worst. 
Did  1  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 
Bound    dizzily  —  mistake    my  end,   to 

slake  Thy  thirst : 


HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 


207 


So,  take  and  use  Thy  work  ! 

Aiiiend  what  Haws  may  link, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings 

jiast  the  aim  ! 
My  times  be  in  Thy  hand ! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let   age   approve   of  youth,  and   death 

complete  the  same! 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 

JuRT  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  lis ; 

Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat,  — 
J'oiind  tlie  one  gift  of  which  fortune  be- 
reft us, 
Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 
They,  witii  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him 
out  silver. 
So  much  was  theirs  w'ho  so  little  allowed. 
Haw  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  ser- 
vice ! 
Rags  —  were    they   purple,  his   heart 
had  Vieen  proud  ! 
"We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him, 
honored  him, 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his 
clear  accents. 
Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to 
die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 
Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us,  — they 
watch  from  their  graves  ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the 
freemen ; 
He   alone   sinks   to  the  rear  and  the 
slaves ! 
We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  through 
his  presence ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us,  — not  from  his 
lyre  ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  lie  boasts  his 
quiescence. 
Still  bidding  crouch   whom   the   rest 
bade  aspire. 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  —  record   one 
lost  soul  more, 
One  task  more  declined,  one  more  foot- 
path untrod, 
One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and  sor- 
row for  angels, 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  in- 
sult to  God ! 
Life's  night  begins;  let  him  never  come 
back  to  us ! 


There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and 
pain. 
Forced  praise  on  our  part,  —  the  glimmer 
of  twilight. 
Never  glad,  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  tight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him,  — 
strike  gallantly. 
Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce  through 
his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge 
and  wait  us, 
Pardoned  in  Heaven,  the  first  by  the 
throne ! 


HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

[v.  S.  A.] 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE. 

Listen,  mj-  children,  and  you  shall  hear 
Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 
On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy- 
five; 
Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 
Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year. 

He  said  to  his  friend,    "If  the  British 

march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hnng  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 
Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  sigr.al 

light,  — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ; 
And  I  on  the  oyiposite  shore  will  be. 
Read}'  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through   every   Middlesex   village   and 

farm. 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  uji  and  to 

arm." 

Then  he  said,  "Good  night!"  and  with 

muffled  oar 
Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 
.lust  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay. 
Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 
The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war; 
A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar 
Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar. 
And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magni- 
fied 
By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile,  his  friend,  through  alley  and 

street. 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ear.s, 


208 


SONGS   OF   THREE    GENTUKIES. 


Till  in  the  silence  around  liim  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  banaek  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  tiie  tramp  of  feet. 
And  the  measui'ed  tread  of  the  grenadiei.s, 
Marchiugdown  to  their  boats  on  the  shore. 

Then  he  clinihed  tlie  tower  of  the  Old 

North  Church, 
I'lV  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealth}' tread. 
To  tlie  belfrv-chaniber  overhead. 
And  stai'tled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 
On  the  sombre  rafters,  that  round  him 

made 
Masses  and  mo\'ing  shapes  of  shade,  — 
r>y  the  trembling  laddei',  steep  and  tall, 
To  the  highest  window  in  th<;  wall, 
Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 
A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town. 
And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchj'ard,  lay  the  dead, 
In  their  night-encampment  on  the  hill, 
Wra]i|ied  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 
Tliat  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread. 
The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 
Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent. 
And  seeming  to  whisper,  "All  is  well!" 
A  moment  only  he  feels  the  sjiell 
Of  the  ]ilace  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret 

dread 
Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead ; 
For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 
On  a  shadowy  something  far  away. 
Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 
A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats    ■ 
On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride. 
Booted  and  spumed,  with  a  heavy  stride 
On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Re- 
vere. 
Xow  lie  patted  his  horse's  side, 
Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 
And  turned  and   tightened    his  saddle- 
girth  ; 
But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 
The  belfry-toweroftheOld  North  Church, 
As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 
Lonely  and  spectral  and  soinbre  and  still. 
And  lo  !  as  he  looks,  on  thebclfry'shfight 
A  glinnner,  and  then  a  glt^uu  of  light! 
He  springs  to  tiie  saddle,  the  bridle  he 

turns, 
But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 
A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns! 


A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the 
dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  pass- 
ing, a  spark 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and 
Heet : ' 

That  was  all !  And  yet,  through  the 
gloom  and  the  light. 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 

And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed, 
in  his  flight, 

Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat. 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the 

steep. 
And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and 

deep, 
Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides ; 
And  under  the  alders,  that  skirt  its  edge, 
Now  soft  on  the  santl,  now  loud  on  the 

ledge, 
Isheard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock 
When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford 

town. 
He  heard  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 
And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog. 
And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 
That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 

It  was  one  by  the  Aillage  clock, 
When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 
He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock 
Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  pa.ssed. 
And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank 

and  bare, 
Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 
As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 
At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon. 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord 

town. 
He  heanl  the  bleating  of  the  flork, 
And  the  twitter  of  liirds  among  the  trees. 
And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze 
Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 
And  one  was  .safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 
Who  at  the  biidge  would  be  first  to  fall, 
]  Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead. 
Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball. 

You  know  the  rest.     In  the  books  yoii 

have  read, 
How  the  British  Reg-ilars  fired  and  fled, — 


HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 


209 


How  the  farmers  gave  them  hall  for  hall, 
From  hehind  each  fence  and  farm-yard 

wall, 
Chasing  the  redcoats  down  the  lane. 
Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 
And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry 

of  alarm 
To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 
A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 
A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the 

door. 
And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore  ! 
For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past, 
Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last. 
In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and 

need, 
The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 
The  liurrying  hoof-beats  of  that  steed 
And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  I!e- 

vere. 


MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  out.shine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one. 
As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  witli  reluctant  feet. 
Where  the  hrook  and  river  meet. 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 

Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 

On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance,         » 

On  the  river's  broad  expanse  ! 

Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  .stream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem. 
As  the  river  of  a  dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision. 
When  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by, 
As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 
Sees  the  falcon's  shadow  fly? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore, 
That  our  ears  perceive  no  more. 
Deafened  by  the  cataract's  roar  ? 
14 


0,  thou  child  of  many  prayers  ! 

Life  hath  (piicksands,  —  Life  hath  snares  ! 

Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon. 
May  glides  onward  into  June. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Bil'ds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ;  — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows. 
When  the  young  heart  overHow.s, 
To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand  ; 

Gates  of  hrass  cannot  withstaiul 

One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth, 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth. 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

0,  that  dew,  like  halm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart. 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE    HEART   OF   THE   YOCNO    MAN    SAID  TO 
THE   PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers. 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers. 
And  tilings  are  not  what  they  seem. 

T>ife  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  du.st  returnest. 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  tliough  stout  aiid  brave, 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
1       P'uneral  marches  to  the  grave. 


210 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


In  the  -tvorld's  hroad  field  of  battle, 

111  the  hivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  duinh,  diiven  cattle! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Tnist  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  dei)arting,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ;- 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate, 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


RESIGNATION. 

TiTKRK  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and 
tended. 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  liieside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  lias  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying. 
And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 

The  heart  of  Kachel,   for  her  children 
crying. 
Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !     These  severe  aflflic- 
tions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise. 
But  ottentiines  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 


We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and 
vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !     What  seems  so  is 
transition ; 
This  life  of  mortal  breath 


Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 
AVhose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affec- 
tion, — 
But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  pro- 
tection. 
And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclu- 
sion, 
By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pol- 
lution. 
She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  piirsu- 
ing, 
Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,    and  keep 
unbroken 
The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though 
unspoken. 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her : 
For  when  with  raptures  wild 

In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 
She  will  not  be  a  child; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  man- 
sion. 
Clothed  with  celestial  grace ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expan- 
sion 
Shall  we  behold  her  face. 


And  though    at   times   impetuotis  with 
emotion 
And  anguish  long  suppressed. 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like 
the  ocean. 
That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 


We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feel- 
ing 

We  may  not  wholly  stay ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 


211 


SANTA  FILOMENA. 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wi'ought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 

Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 

To  higher  levels  rise. 

The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 
Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 

And  lifts  us  unawares 

Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  Avhose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 
And  by  their  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low  ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
Tiie  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 

In  dreary  hospitals  of  pain, 
The  cheerless  corridors, 
The  cold  and  stony  floors. 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering gleom, 
And  flit  I'rom  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss. 
The  speechless  sufl"erer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly. 
The  vision  came  and  went. 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent. 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song. 

That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 

From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear. 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filoniena  bore. 


HAWTHORNE. 

May  23,  1864. 

How  beautiful  it  was,  that  one  bright  day 

In  the  long  week  of  rain  ! 
Though  all  its  splendor  could  not  chase 
away 

The  omnipresent  pain. 

The  lovely  town  was  Avhite  with  api)le- 
blooms, 

And  the  great  elms  o'erhead 
Dark  shadows  wove  on  their  aerial  looms 

Shot  through  \\ith  golden  thread. 

Across   the   meadows,  by  the   gray  old 
manse. 

The  historic  river  flowed  : 
I  was  as  one  who  wanders  in  a  trance. 

Unconscious  of  his  road. 

The   faces    of  familiar   friends    seemed 
strange  ; 
Their  voices  I  could  hear. 
And  yet  the  words  they  uttered  seemed 
to  change 
Their  meaning  to  my  ear. 

Forthe  one  face  1  looked  for  was  not  there, 
The  one  low  A'oice  was  mute ; 

Only  an  unseen  presence  filled  the  air, 
And  baffled  my  pursuit. 

Now  I  look  back,  and  meadow,  manse, 
and  stream 

Dimly  my  thought  defines ; 
I  only  see — a  dream  within  a  dream — 

The  hill-top  hearsed  with  jiines. 

I  only  hear  above  his  place  of  rest 

Their  tender  undertone, 
The  infinite  longings  of  a  troubled  breast. 

The  voice  so  like  his  own. 

There  in  seclusion  and  remote  from  men 

The  wizaid  hand  lies  cold, 
Which  at  its  topmost  speed  let  fall  the  pen. 

And  left  the  tale  half  told. 

Ah !  who  shall  lift  that  wand  of  magic 
power. 
And  the  lost  clew  regain  ? 
The    unfinished   window    in    Aladdin's 
tower 
Unfini.shed  must  remain ! 


(1  I'll! AM)  MASSKY,  • 


TO  DAV    AND  TO  MORROW. 

II  ii:ii  Iiojm'kIIiiiI  liiiriii'il  lil<cMiHrHHiililirrii^ 
(ill  (liiwii  the  liciivcriH  of  Kii'i'ilniii, 

Ami  liiK!  IiciiiIh  |i(!iiHli  in  tin-  IIuki 
W(!  l)ilt,cilii'Ht  iifoil  tliiiri ! 

iJiit  iH'vcc  Hit,  we  (liivvii,  mill  Miiy 
'riirl'irn  111)1  hjiii^f  Irjl,  lull   Mortow ; 

Wi'  wiilk  I  III'  wiMiM  iM'Kt  to  iliiy, 

Till'    )ll'lllllisi'l|    IiIImI    III    IIIIIITdW. 


Oiir  IiIi'iIh  (if  Hon;^  (in-  hIIi'iiI  how, 

TIh'I'i'  (III'  no  lliiwi'i',4  liliiDiiiiii^' ; 
V'll  I  ill'  Im'iiIh  ill  IliM  IVozcn  liuii^li, 

,\lii|    {''rri'ilniii'M  Hpiili;^  in  riiliilli;;  ! 
Ami   l''i'i'i'(|iim'H  liili'  I'oiiH'M  ii|i  iiluiiy, 

'i'liiMi;;li  \vi'  iiiiiy  sliiiid  in  muihw; 
Ami  our  ^'iiiiil  Ipiiik  iil;iimiiiiI  lo diiy 

Nliiill  IliKit  ii;^iiin  lo-inorrow. 

'I'liioii^^h  itll  I  III'  lout/,  iIimK  iii;,'lil>i  itfyciwH 

'I'lm  |m'i>|i1i''h  I'i'y  aHiM'mli'lii, 
AihI  I'll!  Ill  in  vvi't,  willi  lilooil  iiml  Ii'iuh; 

lliil  oiir  niiM'|<  HiiU'i'i'Mmi'  I'lnli'lli  I 
Till'  I'l'w  hIiiiII  hill,  lori'vci'  Hvviiy, 

Till'  niiiny  (nil  in  hoitow  ; 
'I'lii'  |toW('l'M  oC  fiiilli  iii'ii  hI.Ioii;;  lo  iliiy, 

Mill.   llrilVi'tl  .lliiill   I'liln  lo  inonow. 


'I'lioiij^li  lii'iiilMJprdoil  o'lr  I  III'  |iM';l,  oiir  cyi-H 

Willi  Hiiiilini^  li'iiliiri'M  j^li.sti'n  ! 
I''i(r  lo  !   oiir  iljiy  liiiiHtM  ii|)  till'  .■<jui'h: 

Lnili  oiil,  yiiiii'  Hiilll.s  lunl  UhIi'Ii  I 
'I'lm  worlil  ioIIm  li'iccilnnrH  niiliiiiil,  wny 

Ami  ri|ir'iiH  with  Iht  hditow  ; 
Ki'i'|t  lii'iiil  !   wliii  lii'iir  till'  ci'oM.M  tii-iiiiy 

Sliiill  wi'ur  t.iin  I'luwii  t.o-niormw. 


(•  ^'o•llll  !   Iliuiii'  i'iiiiii'mI,  slill  ns|piii', 

Willi  I'lii'ij^ii'H  iniiiioi'lal  I 
'I'll  niiiiiy  a.  Iinivni  ol'  tjcsini 

••iir  yi'iiniiiiK  ii|ii'h  h  |nirtiil  : 

All  I    llloiij^ji  ii^n  Wi'iil'ii's  liy   |||i<  wiiv, 

Ami  lii'iuli  liiviik  ill  llii'  riirniw, 
Wi'  'II  MOW  I  111'  f^olili'ii  ^'niin  lo  ilay, 
Ami  liiiivrsi  I'onii'H  111  iiioriow. 


!'>  iilil  ii|i  lii'ioii'  livi'.M,  ami  all 
III'  liki'  a  NJicatlii'ii  Halnr, 

Ui'iiily  III  llawli  mil  at  (iml  h  rail, 
()  cliiviiiry  of  lalior  ! 


Ti'iiirii|ili  ami  toil  a.ri'  twirm;  find  ayn, 
.loy  HiiiiH  l.lii'  rloml  of  Moiiow  ; 

Ami  't.  i.f  till'  iiiartyriloni  t.o-day 
Urine's  victory  to  inonow. 


JUILN  (;.  WlirJTlKR. 

fl).  «,  A.J 

TFfK   (JHAVK    f!V    TTi;    I.AKK. 

WiiKiii',  till'  (iiral.  \,n\i<:'H  Hiiniiy  .siiiiln.H 
l)ini|ili'  I'oiiml  ilH  liiimliTil  i-ili'H, 
Ami  l.lii'  motinlaiii'.s  i^iaiiitr  li'ilj.;i' 
<'lravi's  \]\c  vvatiT  likr  a  wril;.,'!', 
Iiiii;.;ril  alMMil.willi  Mimiotli,  j^ray  hIoih'.m, 
I'l-.l.  till!  ^iant.'H  iiii;;lily  lionr.s. 

('JiiHii  lii'.Miili',  ill  hIiiiiIo  ami  ;^li'ani, 
l.aii>/liH  ami  ii|i|ili',H  Mi'lvin  .Mlii'ain; 
Mriviii  watrr,  iiiomil.iiiii  lioiii, 
All  lair  llowi'iM  its  IiiiiiKh  ailorii  ; 
Ail  I  111!  wiioillaiiirM  voiiii'H  nn'i't, 
Miii>/liii;;  willi  i\n  lllllrnllll•.'^  Nwi'c.t. 

Ovi'C  lowiaml.s  rorivHt-!.;ri)Wii, 

Over  wati'iM  i.sliniil-.Hliowii, 

OviT  nilvi'l-Hamlnl  ln'arli, 

I.i'af  liii'ki'il  liay  ami  misty  rnirli, 

Mi'lviii  slri'ani  ami  Inn  iiil-lir;i|i, 

Walrli  ami  wanl  tlii'  iiioiiiilain  i  krrp. 

Will)  l.lial,  Tiliiii  rroinli'cli   liils? 
Korr.sl.-kaiHi'i,  lunl  n'  the  |ii||s? 
Kiiif^lil.  wliii  on  I, III'  liinlii'ii  |  iit 
f'aivi'd  lii,^  .savai(i'  lii'iii!ilr\  ? 
I'rii'Hl.  o'  tlic  piiii'-wiioij  tiin|ili'^  liiin, 
i'ri)|ilii't,  Hdf^o,  or  wi/anl  ;^'riiii  / 

ItiiKfiff'il  ty|)i'  of  |iiitiiiii  I 

(iriiii  iilililariaii, 

Loviii;^'  wiioils  lor  liiint  and  |irowl, 
iiMl<n  and  hill  for  lisli  and  fowl, 
Ah  till'  lii'dwn  lir.ir  Mind  and  iliill 
'I'd  l.lm  ^{raiiil  iiiid   linnil  il'iil  : 

Not.  for  him  Ihr  Ir.sson  drawn 
From  till'  inoiiiitain'^  siiiit  willi  ijiiwn. 
Slar-risi',  moon  lisi',  IIowits  of  May, 
Hiih.si'I'h  )iiirpli'  li'ooni  of  diiv,     - 
Took  lii.s  lili'  no  linr  rroin  timnro, 
four  amid  siirli  ;illliiriH'i'  I 

Haply  iiiilo  hill  and  I  rn' 
All  loo  iii'iir  akin  wiih  Im : 


JOITNT    r,.    WIirPTIKR. 


21M 


Hiilo  liitii  wlio  hIuikIh  iifiir 
Niiliirc'H  iiiiiivcIh  ^rciil,(^Ht,  iir<! ; 
VVIiit  llii^  iiMimiliiiii  |Mii|il(!  Hi'ckH 
Must,  iiiit,  rliiiilj  tlir  lii;^'lifi-  pi'iikH. 

Yi't,  will)  kiiDVVH  ill  vviiil.cr  Uaiiip, 
Or  \[h:  iiiidiii^^'lil,  of  l,)ii^  iiuii)(, 
VVIiiil,  idviuiliii^H  I'aiiiL  mid  liir, 
Sli'iilili;^  iliivvii  IVdiii  iiioiiii  iiiul  hIiii', 
Kiiidlcil  ill  Uiiil.  Iiiiiiiaii  ('liiil 
'l'lloli;,dil,  of  ili'stiliy  11.11(1   (Jod? 

Htatc.licHi,  U)\v.h\,  piitriarcli, 

(ii'iiiid  ill  i'dIm's  (if  skill  luid  liark, 

Wlini  .si'|iiilfliiiil  iiiyslcricM, 

VViial,  wi'iid  I'liin-riil  litcH,  vvci'i^  his? 

Wliiil,  hliiii|i  vviiii,  wlial,  drciir  linnciil, 

Jluck  HcurccI  udll'  mid  cagii!  h(!IiI.  / 

Now,  vvlialc'cr  ill'  iiiiiy  Inivc  lii'i'ii, 

Ijovv  In:  lii'.H  as  III  lur  iiii'ii  ; 

On  Ids  iiiDiiMd  Mil'  |iailriiif{n  liniiiiH, 

'I'iicir   111!'   Illli^:y    i)ll|rjay   COIIICH  ; 

liuiik  nor  naiiii'.  imr  |iiini|i  lias  lie 
III  till!  gi'avo'H  diiuioci'airy. 

Tail,  lliy  Mill-  liiis,  Niirliiciii  lake! 
Mo.ss-^iown  rocks,  your  siliMici!  bniak 
Toll  Uii;  Lull',  l.liou  aiicii'iit  trcf! ! 
'I'lioii,  loo,  slidi'-worn  0.s,si|ii'i?t 
Spi'ak,  and  li'll  lis  liow  and  wlii'ii 
liivi'd  and  dii'il  lids  king  ol'  iiii'ii  ! 

Wordli'SM  moans  I  In-  nnr.icnt  piin'; 
l^aki;  and  nioiinlain  ^ivi'  no  si;^'n  ; 
Vain  l.o  tiari'.  Iliis  rinjj;  of  sloni's; 
Vain  tin:  Hi'arrli  of  niiiiiKlinf^  hones: 
|)ci-|H'Ht,  of  all  iny.sl-crirs. 
And  till'  saddi'st,  sili'in'c  is. 

Nanii'li'ss,  noti'ii'ss,  rlay  with  I'hiy 
Min^dcs  slowly  day  hy  day; 
I'ul  soiiirwiii'ii',  lor  j^'ood  or  ill, 
That  dark  soul  is  liviiif,'  still  ; 
Sonii'wiicrc  yid,  that,  atom's  forco 
Movi's  tin:  lif^dif  poised  uiiivcr.si;. 

SIran;,'!'  that  on  his  hliiial  sod 
llaiihidls  hlooiii,  and  f^foldi'iirod, 
W'liili'  the  soul's  daik  holoscopi: 
Holds  no  starry  si^n  of  hope! 
Ih  the  llnseeii  with  si/^hi  at  odds? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  (lod's,' 

Thus  I  mused  hy  Mrlvin's  side. 
While  Uie  HUlnliier  evelit.ide 


Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery; 
And  t  he  hush  of  earl  li  and  air 

SeenieiLthe  pause   lielore  a  pravCJI', — 

{'layer  lor  him,  h.i  all  who  rest, 

Mother  i'^arth,  u|i(iii  thy  hreiist, — 

haplied  on  ('hiistian  turf,  or  hid 

In  roek-cave  or  pyramid  : 

All  who  Hleeji,  as  all  who  live, 

Well  may  niid  the  player,  "Korf,dve!" 

Desert-Hinot  lured  eaiiuan, 
Knee-deep  dust   that  oine  was  nuin, 
I'lal.tle  trenehes  f^hastly  Jiiled,  , 
(  >eeandloors  with   while   hones  tiled, 
('lowded  tomhaiid  mounded  sod, 
l)uinlily  Clave  that   juayer  to  (iod. 

<  >  t  he  (^eiieiat  ions  old 

Over  whom  no  ehureh  hells  tolled, 

< 'liiistless,  lillin;^  ii))  hlind  eyes 

To  the  sileiiee  of  the  skies! 

l'"or  the  innnmerahle  dead 

Is  tny  soul  disipiieted. 

Where  he  now  these  silent  hosts? 
Where  the  eampiii;^-f;round  orglioHls? 
Where  the  spectral  ciuiseripts  led 
To  the  wiiile  tents  ol'  the  dead  '! 
What  straii^^e  shore  or  ehartless  sea 
Holds  the  aw  I'ul  niysteiy  '! 

Then  the  warm  sky  stooped  to  mako 

I  )oulilc  sunset   in  t.he  lake  ; 

While  ahove  I  saw  with  it, 

Itaii^e  on  raii;^'e,  the  moiiiitaius  lit  ; 

And  the  eallii  and  splendor  stole 

I, ike  ail  answer  to  my  soul. 

Ilear'st  thou,  O  otliltle  faith. 
What,  to  tJiee  the  mountain  saith, 
What  is  whispered  hy  the  trees/  — 
'M'ast  on  (!oil  thy  care  lor  these; 
Trust  him,  if  thy  si;;ht  he  dim  : 
Doiiht  for  tlieiii  is  doiiht,  of  liiiii. 

"Hliiid  must  he  I  heir  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  t\i<i\\i  the  sunshine  lies, 
Kii'i-y  linked  the  selfd'or^'cd  chain 
l>iiidinj^  ever  sin  to  pain, 
Htroii;f  tticir  |irisondiouse  of  will, 
Ihit  without  He  waitclh  still. 

"  Not,  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  liove  Kteiiiai  Mow ; 


214 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Cmnibles  in  the  l>reath  of  prayer; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  hre. 

"Still  thy  love,  0  Christ  arisen ! 
Yearns  to  leaeh  these  souls  in  prison? 
Through  all  dcjitlis  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  thy  cross! 
Never  yet  aliyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  sound!" 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
E(pial  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  mound, 
And  to  cairn  and  kiikyard  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  0  pleasant  Melvin  stream. 
Thy  sweet  laugh  in  sha<le  and  gleam ! 
On  the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 
Swing,  0  Howers,  your  l)ells  of  bloom  ! 
Deep  below,  as  higli  above. 
Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 


MY  BIRTHDAY. 

Bkneath  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 

Lies. dead  my  latest  year; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moaning  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell ; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 

God  is,  and  all  is  well  ! 

His  light  shines  on  me  from  above, 
His  low  voice  speaks  within,  — 

The  patience  of  immortal  love 
Outwearying  mortal  sin. 

Not  mindless  of  the  growing  years 

Of  care  and  loss  and  i)ain, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  thankful  tears 

For  blessings  which  icmain. 

If  dim  the  gold  of  life  has  gi-own, 

1  will  not  count  it  dross, 
Nor  turn  fiom  treasures  still  my  own 

To  sigh  for  lack  and  loss. 


The  years  no  charm  from  Nature  take ; 

As  sweet  her  voices  call. 
As  beautiful  her  mornings  break, 


As  fair  her  evenings  fall. 


Love  watches  o'er  my  quiet  ways, 
Kind  voices  s])eak  my  name, 

And  lips  that  lind  it  hard  to  jiraise 
Are  slow,  at  least,  to  blame. 

How  softly  ebb  the  tides  of  will ! 

How  fields,  once  lost  or  won. 
Now  lie  behind  me  green  and  still 

Beneath  a  level  sun  ! 

How  hushed  the  hiss  of  party  hate. 

The  clamor  of  the  throng ! 
How  old,  harsh  voices  of  debate 

Flow  into  rhythmic  song ! 

Methinks  the  spirit's  temper  grows 

Too  soft  in  this  still  air. 
Somewhat  the  restful  heart  foregoes 

Of  needed  watch  and  prayer. 

The  bark  by  tempest  vainly  tossed 

May  founder  in  the  calm, 
And  he  who  braved  the  ])olar  frost 

Faint  by  the  isles  of  balm. 

Better  than  self-indulgent  years 

The  outflung  heart  of  youth. 
Than  pleasant  songs  in  idle  ears 
The  tumult  of  the  truth. 

Rest  for  the  weary  hands  is  good, 
And  love  for  hearts  that  pine. 

But  let  the  manly  habitude 
Of  upright  souls  be  mine. 

Let  winds  that  blow  from  heaven  refresh, 

Dear  Lord,  the  languid  air ; 
And  let  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 

Thy  strength  of  spirit  share. 

And,  if  the  eye  must  fail  of  light. 

The  ear  forget  to  heai'. 
Make  clearer  still  the  sjiiiit's  sight, 
.    More  fine  the  inward  ear ! 

Be  near  me  in  mine  hours  of  need 
To  soothe,  to  cheei',  or  warn. 

And  down  these  slopes  of  sunset  lead 
As  up  the  hills  of  morn ! 


JOHN   G.    WHITTIER. 


215 


THE   VANISHERS. 

Sweetest  of  all  childlike  dreams 

In  the  simple  Indian  lore 
Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 

Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone. 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks. 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  V^anishers ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff. 
And  the  hunter  on  the  moss. 

Hear  their  call  from  cai)e  and  cliff, 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  through  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  sliines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantlef;  flow 
On  the  slojies  of  westering  knolls; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Laud  of  Souls. 

Doubt  who  ma)',  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too ; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 

In  the  gold  of  setting  day  ; 
More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 

Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 

Gleams  and  gloiies  seen  and  flown, 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth. 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  blown,  — 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 

Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste. 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp, 

Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste,  — ■ 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below. 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more, 

Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 


Guided  thus,  0  friend  of  mine  ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still,  with  bafiled  feet, 
Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand. 

Sought  and  seeker  soon  shall  meet. 
Lost  and  found,  in  Sunset  Land  ! 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar  sunning ; 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow. 

And  blackberry-vines  are  running. 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen. 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial ; 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying- 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing ! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 
Lit  u))  its  western  window-fianes. 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls. 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving. 

Of  one  who  still  her  stejis  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favor  singled  ; 
His  cap  pulled  low  u])on  a  face 

Where  piide  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  tlie  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered;  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  hearil  the  tremVde  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"I  'm  sorry  that  1  spelt  the  word  : 
I  hate  to  go  above  you, 


o 


16 


SONGS  OF  THREE*  CENTURIES. 


Because,"  — the  brown  eves  lower  fell,- 
" Because,  you  see,  I  love  you!" 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
Tliat  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl  I  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school. 
How  few  wlio  pass  above  liim 

Lament  tiieir  triuni])h  and  his  loss, 
Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 


LAUS  DEO! 

ON  HEARING  THE  BFLLS  KINO  ON  THE  PASSAGE 
OK  THE  CONSTITUTIONAL  AMENDMENT  ABOL- 
ISHING  SLAVERY. 

It  is  done ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel ! 

How  the  gieat  guns,  peal  on  peal. 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 

Ring,  0  bells  ! 
Every  stroke  e.xulting  tells 

Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 
King  for  every  listening  ear 

Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel : 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 
Lord,  forgive  us  !  '  What  are  we. 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see. 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound ! 

P'or  tin;  Lord 

On  the  whirlwiixl  is  abroad; 
In  the  eaitlii|uake  he  has  spoken  ; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 

Lift  till-  old  e.\i)lting  song; 
Sing  with  Miriam  liy  the  sea 

He  has  cast  the  miglity  down  ; 

Horse  anil  ridei'  siId^-  a"ii<l  drown  ; 
"He  hath  triumphed  gloriously  !" 

Did  we  dare. 
In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  "than  He  has  done  ? 


"When  was  ever  his  right  hand 
Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  uf  our  days, 
When  the  ciiiel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  lighteous  law,. 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  ! 

Blotted  out ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
Ou  the  dead  and  buried  sin ! 

It  is  done ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice. 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

Ring  and  swing. 
Bells  of  joy !     On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns. 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God ! 


THE  EVE   OF  ELECTION. 

From  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  summer  fiides  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,   white   and   calm,    the   himter'3 
moon. 

In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  sjiire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance: 

The  painted  walls 

Wheieon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west-wind  grieves. 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 


WILLIAM   ALLINGHAM. 


217 


Along  the  street 

The  sluulows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

Tliat  shape  the  state, 
And  make  or  mar  the  conmion  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be  ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs; 

And  jirinces  meet 

In  every  street. 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  ! 

Hark !  through  the  crowd 

Tlie  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon  ! 

Ko  jest  is  this ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

O,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer. 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear ! 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float; 

Tlie  crowning  fact 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote ! 

For  ])earls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  th(^  deep  sea  dies ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  cobtlier  sacrifice  ; 

The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  p)rison  pain 
Who  traced  the  jjath  the  Pilgrim  trod. 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strengtli  from  death. 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain ; 

The  stake,  the  cord. 

The  axe,  the  sword. 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 


The  shadow  rend, 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
0 martyrs,  with  your  crownsand  palms, — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
Your    scaffold     prayei's,   and 
psalms ! 


dungeon 


Look  from  the  sk}"-. 

Like  God's  great  e}'e, 
Thou  solenin  moon,  with  searching  beam ; 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 

LTnworthy  arts. 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims. 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be. 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one ! 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 

THE  TOUCHSTONE. 

A  MAN  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell, 
Bearing  a  touchstone  in  his  hand ; 
And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 

By  its  unerring  spell. 

Quick  birth  of  transmutation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fair; 
Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 

Nor  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much. 
Were  many  changed  to  chijis  aud  clods, 
And  even  statues  of  the  gods 

Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 


218 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Then  aiifirrily  the  people  cried, 

"The  loss  outweiglis  the  profit  far; 
Our  goods  suHioe  us  as  they  are; 

"VVe  will  not  have  theui  tried." 

And  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  this  unrelenting  guest, 
They  seized  him,  saying,  "Let  him  test 

How  real  is  our  jail ! " 

But,  though  they  slew  him  with  the  sword, 
And  in  a  fire  his  touchstone  buined, 
Its  doings  Could  not  be  o'erturned, 

Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm, 
Tliey  strewed  its  ashes  on  the  breeze; 
They  little  guessed  each  grain  of  these 

Conveyed  the  perfect  charm. 


CHARLES  MAC  KAY. 

SMALL  BEGINNINGS. 

A    TRAVELLER    through   a   dusty   road 

strewed  acorns  on  the  lea  ; 
And  one  took  root  and  sprouted  up,  and 

grew  into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  sliade,  at  evening  time, 

to  breathe  his  early  vows ; 
And  age  was  please<l,  in  heats  of  noon, 

to  bask  beneath  its  boughs; 
The  dormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs, 

the  birds  sweet  music  bore; 
It  stood  a  glory  in  its  place,  a  blessing 

evermore. 

A  little  spring  had  lost  its  way  amid  the 

grass  and  fern, 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well,  where 

weary  men  iniglit  turn  ; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care  a 

ladle  at  the  brink  ; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did,  but 

judged  that  toil  might  drink. 
He   passed  again,  and  lo!    the  well,  by 

sunnners  never  dried, 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parched  tongues, 

and  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  dreamer  drop[>ed  a  random  tliought; 

't  was  old,  and  yet  't  was  new ; 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain,  but  strong 

in  being  true. 


It  shone  njion  a  genial   mind,  and,  lo ! 

its  light  became 
A  lamp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray,  a  mouitoiy 

flame  : 
The  thought  was  small ;  its  issue  great ; 

a  watch-fire  on  the  hill ; 
It   sheds    its    radiance    far   adown,   and 

cheers  the  valley  stiU. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd  that 
thronged  the  daily  mart. 

Let  fall  a  word  of  Ho[)e  and  Love,  un- 
studied, from  the  heart ; 

A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown,  — a 
transitory  breath,  — 

It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust;  it 
saved  a  soul  from  death. 

0  germ !  O  fount !  0  word  of  love !  0 
thought  at  random  cast ! 

Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first,  but  mighty 
at  the  last. 


TUBAL  CAIN. 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might 

In  the  days  when  Earth  was  young; 
By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright 

The  strokes  of  his  hammer  lung; 
And  he  lifted  high  his  bi'awny  hand 

On  the  iron  glowing  clear. 
Till  the   sparks   rushed   out   in   scarlet 
showers. 

As  he  fashioned  the  sword  and  spear. 
And   he  sang,  "Hurrah  for  my  handi- 
work ! 

Hurrah  for  the  sjjcar  and  sword  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  hand  that  shall  wield  them 
well. 

For  he  shall  be  king  and  lord !" 


To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a  one. 

As  he  wiought  by  his  roaring  fire,     • 
And  eaidi  one  prayed  for  a  strong  steel 
blade 

As  the  crown  of  his  desire  : 
And  he  made  them  weapons  sharp  and 
strong, 

Till  they  shouted  loud  for  glee. 
And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearl  and  gold. 

And  spoils  of  tiie  forest  free. 
And  they  sang,  "Hurrah  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Wlio  hath  given  us  strength  anew  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  smith,  huirah  for  the  fire, 

And  hurrali  for  the  metal  true  !" 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 


219 


But  a  sndden  cliange  came  o'er  his  heart 

Ere  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
And  Tubal  Cain  was  fiUed  with  pain 

For  the  evil  he  had  done ; 
He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate, 

Made  war  upon  tlieir  kind. 
That  the  land  was  red  with  the   blood 
they  shed 

In  their  lust  for  carnage  blind. 
And  he  said,  "Alas!  that  ever  I  made, 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  jdan, 
The  spear  and  the  sword  for  men  whose 

joy 

Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man." 

And  for  many  a  day  old  Tubal  Cain 

Sat  brooding  o'er  his  woe ; 
And  his  hand  forbore  to  smite  the  ore. 

And  his  furnace  smouldered  low. 
But  he  rose  at  last  with  a  cheerful  face, 

And  a  bright,  courageous  eye. 
And  bared  his  strong  right  arm  for  work, 

While  the  quick  Haines  mounted  high. 
And  he  sang,  "Hurrah   for   my  handi- 
craft !" 
-    And  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air ; 
"Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright 
steel  made"  ; 

And  he  fashioned  the  first  jdoughshare. 


OLIVER  AYENDELL  HOLMES. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  LIVING  TEMPLE. 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone. 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne. 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen: 
Ijook  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame, — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows   murmuring    through  its   hidden 

caves, 
Whose  strearasofbrighteningpurple  rush. 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush. 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away. 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 


No  rest  that  throl)bing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  ciimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  Hood  of  burning  life  divides. 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part. 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  movitig  frame. 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong. 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains. 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  j-on  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light. 
Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound. 
Arches  aiid  spiials  ciicling  rouiu). 
Wakes  the  hushed  sj)irit  through  thineear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

« 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  n)ysteiious  folds. 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  tliC  sovereign  will ; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  tliat  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  (dustering  cells  1 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

0  Father  !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  tenqdes  thine ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sap]>ed  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
AVhen  darkness  gathers  over  all. 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall. 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms! 


DOROTHY  Q. 

A   FAMILY   PORTRAIT. 

Grandmothe[i'.s  mother;  herage,  Igriess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less  ; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air. 
Smooth,  square  forehead,  with  uprolled 

hair. 
Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed. 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist. 


220 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Hunting  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade,  — 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 
Sits  unnioving  and  bioods  serene ; 
Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view, — 
Look  !    there  's  a  rent   the  light  shines 

through, 
Daik  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust, — 
Tliat  was  a  Redcoat's  rapier-thrust ! 
Siu-h  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

AVho  the  painter  was  none  may  tell,  — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed. 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  lias  long  been  ]U'essed; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright, 
Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white ; 
And  in  her  slender  shape;  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born  ! 
Ay  !  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name; 
And  still  to  the  tiiree-hilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown. 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
Tlie  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

0  damsel  Dorothy !  Dorothy  Q.  ! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you ; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring, — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  nnd  iiand, 
AW  my  title  to  house  and  land  ; 
Mother  and  sister,  and  cliild  and  wife, 
And  joy  and  sorrow,  and  death  and  life  ! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered,  No, 

When  fortli  tlie  tremulous  (piestion  came 

That  cost  tilt!  maiden  her  Xormaii  name ; 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

Till'  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's  thrill  ? 

Should  I  be  1,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another  to  nine  tenths  me? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's  Yes : 
Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less; 
l>;it  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 
Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 
And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 
Tiiat  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long ! 
There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that  whis- 

pereil  then 
You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men ! 


0  lady  and  lover,  how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  and  here  we  are, 
Solid  and  stirring  in  llesh  and  bone,  — 
Edward'sand  Dorothy's  —  all  theirown  — 
A  goodly  record  for  time  to  show 

Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago  !  — 
Shall  1  bless  you,  Dorothy,  or  forgive. 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live  ? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid ! 

1  will  heal    the   stab   of  the    Redcoat's 

blade. 
And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished 

frame. 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  household 

name. 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  tirst  you  greeted  the  morning's  light, 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through  a  second   youth  of  a  hundred 

years. 


THE  "VOICELESS. 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 
Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slum- 
ber. 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 
The    wild-tlowers    who  will   stoop  to 
number? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string. 

And   noisy   Fame    is    proud   to   win 
them :  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  tiieir  hearts'  sad 
story,  — • 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 
The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 
Not  where  Leucadian's  breezes  sweey> 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But   where    the    glistening    night-dews 
weep 
On     nameless     sorrow's     churchyard 
pillow. 

0  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  failing  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing 
]iresses,  — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hiihleii  ]>ang  were  given. 
What  endless  melodies  were;  jioured. 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven ! 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 


221 


ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN. 

He  sleeps  not  here  ;  in  hope  and  prayer 
His  wandering  flock  h»i(l  gone  before, 

But  he,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread, 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  elung. 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said  :  — 

"Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear! 

God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 

Nor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 

"Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 
To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod  : 

Heed  well  thf  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"Yet  think  n(jt  unto  them  was  lent 
All  light  for  all  the  coming  days. 

And  Heaven's  etei-nal  wisdom  sjient 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  waj's  : 

"The  living  fountain  overflows 
For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb, 

Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose, 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake:  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond. 

They  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselmond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The   "Hook    of   Holland's"    shelf  of 
sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherhind. 

No  home  for  these  !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne  ;  — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 
And  westward  ho !  for  worlds  unknown. 

—  And  these  were  they  who  gave  us  birth. 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 

Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth, 
And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave. 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Ehine,  — • 
In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 

Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 
His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry  ! 


Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea ! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder-Zee ! 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE; 

OR,  THE  WONDERFUL  "  ONE-HOSS  SHAY." 

A   LOGICAL  STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one- 

hoss  sliay. 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it  —  ah,  but  stay, 
1  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  tits, 
Frightening  ])eople  out  of  their  wits, — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
GcoTgins  Secnndiis  was  then  alive, — 
Snufly  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulji  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Eaith(|uake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss 
shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you 

what, 
There  is    always   someivhcrc    a  weakest 

spot,  — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 
In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill. 
In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace, — lui'king 

still. 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  w  ithout,  — 
And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear 

out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do. 
With  an  "I  dew  vum,"  or  an   "I  tell 

ycou  ") 
He  would  build  one  shayto  beatthetaown 
'n'  the  keounty  'n'  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could  n  break 

daown : 
—  "Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "'t  's  mighty 

plain 


222 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the 

strain  ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  \\z  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  jilace  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  iiKiuired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  tiud  tlie  strongest  oak, 
That   could  n't   bo   split   nor    bent   nor 

broke,  — ■ 
That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills ; 
He    sent    for   lancewood    to    make    the 

thills ; . 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straight- 

est  trees. 
The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like 

cheese, 
But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 
The   hubs   of  logs  from    the  "Settler's 

ellum,"  — 
Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell 

'em. 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips. 
And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their 

lips, 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 
Step  and  pro]t-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 
Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 
Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 
Thorough  brace    bison-skin,    thick    and 

wide ; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Foun<l  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  ' '  |)ut  her  through. "  — 
"There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "naowshe'll 

dew!" 

Do!  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wondci-,  and  nothing  less ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away. 
Children  and  granilchiklnm,  —  where  were 

they  ? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss 

shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen^  hundred;  —  it    came    and 

found 
The   Deacon's    masterpiece    strong  and 

sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten;  — 
"  Hahnsuni  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came;  — 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive. 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 


Little  of  all  we  value  here 
Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 
Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 
In  fact,  there  's«  nothing  that  keeps  its 

youth, 
So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 
(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large ; 
Take  it. — You're  welcome. — No  extra 

charge.) 

First  of  November,  —  the  Earthquake- 
day.— 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss 

shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay. 
But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 
That  could  n't  be, — for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  matle  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to 

start.  • 

For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the 

thills. 
And  the  floorwasjust  as  strong  as  the  sills. 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor. 
And  the  vvhippletree  neither  less  nor  more. 
And  the  back -crossbar  a  sstrongas  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  loarii  oat! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boj^s,  get  out  of  the  way ! 
Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup  !"  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went 
they. 

The  parson  was  working   his   Sunday's 

text,  — 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still. 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill. 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  ro(;k. 
At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house 

clock, — 
Just  th(!  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

—  What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
Th(r  poor  old  (diaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  grouml ! 
You  sec,  of  coui'se,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


223 


All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, 

Just  as  bubbles  fio  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That's  all  1  say. 


Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past  ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  thelast, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more 
vast, 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free,  ^ 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life  s 
unresting  sea ! 


THE  CHAMBERED  NATTTILTJS. 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 

On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled 

wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings. 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare. 
Where  the  cold   sea-maids   rise  to  sun 
their  streaming  hair. 


Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
AVhere  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont 

As  the  fiairte'nant  shaped  his  growing 

shell, 
Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 

Its  irise.l  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt 

unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew 

He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the 

Stole  ^^it'h  soft  step  its  sinning  archway 
through. 
Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in   his  last-found   home,  and 
knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought 
bv  thee. 
Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  f<irlorn  !      _ 
From,  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed 
horn ! 
While  on  mine  ear  it  rings. 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  1  hear 
a  voice  that  sings:  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0  my 
soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roU ! 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS. 

Her  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light  ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone. 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  sav,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peacetul  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall    wheel    their    circling   shadows 
round 
To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 
That  drinks   the  greenness  irom  the 

ground. 
And   drop   their   dead  leaves  on  her 
mound. 


When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins 
call. 

And,  rii-ening  in  the  autumn  sun. 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  tall. 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky,    , 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  thelengtheningshadowspass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black. 
The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass. 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  tind  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  burie.l  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 


224 


SONGS   OF  THKEE   CENTURIES. 


If  any,  born  of  kindlier  Mood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below? 

Say  only  this :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

[v.  S.  A.] 

THE  HERITAGE. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 
And  jnlcs  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands, 
And  tender  Hesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares ; 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft,  white  hands  couUl  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn  ; 

A  lieritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 
His  stomach  crave.^.  for  dainty  fare ; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  tlie  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arras  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy  chair; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

Whit  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
Stout  muscles  and'a  sinewy  heart, 

A  hardy  frame,  a  liardier  spirit ; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 
In  every  useful  toil  and  ait ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

Wliat  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 
■  A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit, 
(Content  that  from  employment  springs, 
A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings ; 
A  lieritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  liold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 

A  patience  learned  by  lieiiig  poor, 
Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 


A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast^less  his  door; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil. 
That  with  all  others  level  stands ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft,  white  hands, — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

0  poor  man's  son  !  scorn  not  thy  state; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great;. 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine. 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last ; 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well-tilled  past; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 

Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


KEW  ENGLAND  SPRING. 
(From  "  The  Biglow  Papers.") 

I,  coi'NTRV-BOKN'  an'  bred,  know  where 

to  find 
Some  blotmrs  thet  make  the  season  suit 

the  mind. 
An'  seem   to  metch   the  donbtin'   blue- 
bird's notes,  — 
Half-vent'rin'  liverworts  in  furry  coats, 
Blood-roots,   whose   rolled-np   leaves   ef 

fur  oncurl, 
I  Each  on  em  's  cradle  to  a  baby-]iearl,  — • 
!  15ut  these  are  jes'  Spring's  pickets  ;  sure 

07.  sin, 
■  The  rebble  frosts '11  try  to  drive  'em  in  ; 
Forhalf  our  May  's-soawfuUylikeMayn't 
'T  would  rile  a  Shaker  or  an  evrit'e  saint ; 
Though  I  own  up  I  like  our   back'ard 
i  springs 

Thet  kind  o'  haggle  with  their  greens  an' 

things, 
An'  when  you  'most  give  up,  'ithout  more 

words. 
Toss  the  fields  full  o'  blossoms,  leaves,  an' 

birds  : 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL. 


225 


Thet  's  Northun  natur',  slow  an'  apt  to 

doubt,        * 
But  when  it  does  git  stirred,  there  's  no 

gin-out ! 

Fust  come  the  blackbirds   clatt'rin'    in 

tall  trees, 
Au'settlin'tliingsin  windy  Congresses, — 
Queer   ])oliticians,   though,   lor    I  '11   be 

skinned 
Kf  all  ou  'em  don't  head  against  the  wind. 
'Fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  belief, 
The  maple  crimsons  to  a  coral-reef, 
Then  saffron  swarms  swing  off  from  all 

the  willers, 
So  ])lump  they  look  like  fallercaterpillars, 
Then  grav  hosschesnuts  leetle  hands  un- 
fold 
Softer  'n  a  baby's  be  a'  three  days  old : 
Thet  's  robin-redbreast's   almanick;    he 

knows 
Thet  arter  tliis   ther'  's   only    blossom- 
snows  ; 
So,  choosin'  out  a  handy  crotch  an'  spouse, 
He  goes  to  plast'rin'  his  adobe  house. 

/hen  seems  to  come  a  hitch,  — things  lag 

behind. 
Till  some  fine  mornin'  Spring  makes  up 

her  mind. 
An'  ez,  when  snow-swelled  rivers  cresh 

their  dams 
Heaped  up  with  ice  thet  dovetails  in  an' 

jams, 
A  leak  conies  spirtin'  thru  some  pin-hole 

cleft, 
Grows  stronger,  fercer,  tears  out  right  an' 

left, 
Then  all  the  waters  bow  themselves  an' 

come, 
Suddin,  in   one  gret  slope  o'  shedderin 

foam, 
Jes'  so  our  Spring  gits  everythin'  in  tune 
An'  gives  one  leap  from  April  into  Jun(^; 
Then  all  comes  crowdin'  in ;  afore  you 

think. 
Young  oak -leaves  mist  the  side-hill  woods 

with  pink  ; 
The  cat-bird  in  the  laylock-bush  is  loud  ; 
The  orchards  turn  to  heaps  o'  rosy  cloud  ; 
lled-cedars  blossom  tu,  though  few  folks 

know  it, 
An'  look  all  dipt  in  sunshine  like  a  poet : 
The  lime-trees  pile  their  solid  stacks  o' 

shade 
An'  drows'ly  simmer  with  the  bees'  sweet 

trade ; 


In  ellum  shrouds  the  flaShin'  hang-bird 

clings. 
An'  for  the  summer  vy'ge  his  hammock 

slings ; 
All  down  the  loose-walled  lanes  in  archin' 

bowers 
The  barb'ry  droops  its  strings  o'  golden 

flowers. 
Whose  shrinkin'  hearts  the  school-gals 

love  to  try 
With   ])ins  —  they  '11   worry   yourn   so, 

boys,  bimeby ! 
But  I  don't  love  your  cat'logue  style,  — 

do  you? — 
Ez  ef  to  sell  off  Natur'  by  vendoo ; 
One  word  with  blood   in  't  's   twice   ez 

good  ez  two : 
Nutt'  sed,  June  's  bridesman,  poet  of  the 

year. 
Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink,  is  here  ; 
Half   hid    in   tiji-top   ap^ile  -  blooms   he 

swings. 
Or  climbs  aginst  the  breeze  with  quiv- 

erin'  wings, 
Or,  givin'  way  to  't  in  a  mock  despair. 
Runs  down,  a    brook   o'   laughter,  thru 

the  air. 


THE  COURTIN'. 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 
Fur  'z  you  can  look  or  listen. 

Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 
All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thi'u  the  winder. 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  bender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in  — 

There  warnt  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her, 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
Theole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in. 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceil  in', 


226 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peeliu'. 

'T  was  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  ci'etur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  niodester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  1, 
Clean  grit  an'  human  natur' ; 

None  coukl  n't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 
Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

He  M  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  sipiired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em. 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells  — 
All  is, he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 
All  crinkly  like  curled  maple. 

The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 
Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

Slie  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir ; 
My  !  when  he  made  Ole  Hiinderd  ring. 

She  knoiced  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she  'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 
When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 

Felt  someliow  thru  its  crown  a  pair 
0'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some  ! 

Slie  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-suie  he  'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper,  — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  I'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubt  fie  o'  the  sekle. 
His  heart  kep'  goiu'  pity-pat, 

IJut  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  tliongli  she  wished  liim  furder, 

An'  on  hrr  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder, 

"  Vou  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?" 
"Wal  ....   no  ....   I   come   da- 
signin'  "  — 

"To  see  my  Ma  ?     She 's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 


To  say  why  gals  act  so  or  so, 
Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin' ; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  iio 
Conies  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'  otlier. 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  could  n't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Savs  he,  "I  'd  better  call  agin"  ; 

"Says  she,  "Think  likely.  Mister"; 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin. 

An'  ....  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes. 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary. 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressiu'. 
Tell  mother  see  how  metiers  stood. 

An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetiu'  come  nex'  Sunday. 


AMBROSE. 

Never,  snrely,  was  holier  man 

Than  Ambrose,  since  the  world  began ; 

With  diet  spaie  and  raiment  thin 

He  shielded  himself  from  the  father  of  sin ; 

With  bed  of  iron  and  scourgings  oft, 

His  heart  to  God's  hand  as  wax  made  soft. 

Through  earnest  prayer  and   watchings 

long 
He  sought   to  know   'twixt   right   and 

wrong, 
Much  wrestling  with  the  blessed  Word 
To  make  it  yield  the  sense  of  the  Lord, 
That  he  might  build  a  .storm-])roof  creed 
To  fold  the  liock  in  at  their  need. 

At  last  he  builded  a  perfect  faith, 
Fenced  round  about  with  The  Lord  thus 

saith  ; 
To  himself  he  fitted  the  doorway's  size, 
Meted  the  light  to  the  need  of  his  eyes. 


JAMES   EUSSELL   LOWELL. 


22^ 


And  knew,  by  a  sure  and  inward  sign, 
That  the  work  of  his  fingers  was  divine. 

Then  Ambrose  said,  "All  those  shall  die 
The  eternal  death  who  believe  not  as  1 "  ; 
And  some  were  boiled,  some  burned  in  Hre, 
Some  sawn  in  twain,  that  his  heart's  de- 
sire, 
For  the  good  of  men's  souls,  might  be 

satisfied. 
By  the  drawing  of  all  to  the  righteous 
side. 

One  day,  as  Ambrose  wasseekingthe truth 
In  his  lonely  walk,  he  saw  a  youth 
Resting  himself  in  the  shade  of  a  tree ; 
It  had  never  been  given  him  to  see 
So  shining   a   face,  and   the  good   man 

thought 
'T  were  pity  he  should   not   believe  as 

he  ought. 

So  be  set  himself  by  the  young  man's  side , 

And  the  state  of  his  soul  with  questions 
tried ; 

But  the  heart  of  the  stranger  was  hard- 
ened indeed, 

Nor  received  the  stamp  of  the  one  true 
creed, 

And  the  spirit  of  Ambrose  waxed  sore  to 
find 

Such  face  the  porcli  of  so  narrow  a  mind. 

"As  each  beholds  in  cloud  and  fire 
The  shape  that  answers  his  own  desire, 
So  each,"  said  the  youth,  "in  the  Law- 
shall  find 
The  figure  and  features  of  his  mind  ; 
And  to  each  in  his  mercy  hath  God  al- 
lowed 
His  several  pillar  of  fire  and  cloud." 

The  soul  of  Ambrose  burned  with  zeal 
And  holy  wrath  for  the  youngman's  weal : 
"Believest   thou   then,   most   wretched 

youth," 
Cried  he,  "a  dividual  essence  in  Truth? 
I  fear  me  thy  heart  is  too  cramped  with 

sin 
To  take  the  Lord  in  his  glory  in." 

Now  there  bubbled  beside  them  where 

they  stood 
A  fountain  of  watei-s  sweet  and  good ; 
The  youth  to  the  streamlet's  brink  drew 

near 
Saying,  "Ambrose,  thou  maker  of  creeds, 

look  here!" 


Six  vases  of  crystal  then  he  took, 
And  set  them   along   the    edge   of  the 
brook. 

"As  into  these  vessels  the  water  I  pour,  . 
There  sliall  one  hold  less,  another  more. 
And  the  water  unchanged,  in  every  ca^e, 
Sliall  put  on  the  figure  of  the  vase ;  ' 

0  tlion,  who  wouldtst  unity  make  through 

stiife, 
Canst  tliou  fit  this  sign  to  the  Water  of 

Lite  ? " 

When  Ambrose  looked  up,  he  stood  alone. 
The  youth  and  the  stream  and  the  va^es 

were  gone ; 
But  he  knew,  by  a  sense  of  humbled  grace, 
He  had  talked  with  an  angel  face  to  face. 
And  felt  his  heart  change  inwardly, 
As  he  fell  on  his  knees  beneath  the  tree. 


AFTER  THE  BURIAL. 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor ; 
When  skies  are  sweet  as  a  psalm. 
At  the  bows  it  lolls  so  stalwart. 
In  bluff,  broad-shouldered  calm. 

And  when  over  breakers  to  leewai'd    . 
'Wie  tattered  surges  are  bulled, 
It  may  keep  our  head  to  the  tempest, 
With  its  grip  on  the  base  of  the  woild. 

But,  after  the  shipwreck,  tell  me 
What  help  in  its  iron  thews, 
Still  tiue  to  the  broken  hawser. 
Deep  down  among  sea-weed  and  ooze  ? 

In  the  breaking  gulfs  of  sorrow, 
When  the  helpless  feet  stietcli  out 
And  find  in  the  deeps  of  darkness 
No  footing  so  solid  as  doubt, 

Then  better  one  spar  of  Memory, 
One  broken  plank  of  the  Past, 
Tiiat  our  human  heart  may  cling  to. 
Though  hojieless  of  shore  at  last ! 

To  the  spirit  its  splendid  conjectures, 
To  the  flesh  its  sweet  despair. 
Its  tears  o'er  the  thin-woiii  locket 
With  its  anguish  of  deathless  hair ! 

Immortal  ?     I  feel  it  and  know  it, 
Wlio  doubts  it  of  such  as  she? 
But  that  is  the  pang's  very  secret, — 
Immortal  away  from  me. 


228 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


There  's  a  narrow  ridge  in  the  grave3'ard 
Would  bcai-ce  stay  a  ciiild  in  his  race, 
But  to  me  and  my  thought  it  is  wider 
Than  the  star-sown  vague  of  Space. 

Your  logic,  my  friend,  is  ])erfect, 
Your  morals  most  drearily  true  ; 
But,  since  the  earth  clashed  on  her  coffin, 
I  keep  hearing  that,  and  not  you. 

Console  if  you  will,  I  can  hear  "it ; 
'T  is  a  well-meant  alms  of  breatli ; 
But  not  all  the  i)reaching  since  Adam 
Has  made  Death  other  tlian  Death. 

It  is  pagan  ;  but  wait  till  you  feel  it,  — 
That  jar  of  our  earth,  that  dull  shock 
When  the  ploughshare  of  deeper  passion 
Tears  down  to  our  primitive  rock. 

Communion  in  spirit !     Forgive  me, 
But  I,  who  am  earthy  and  weak, 
Would  give  all  my  incomes  from  dream- 
land 
For  a  touch  of  her  hand  on  my  cheek. 

That  little  shoe  in  the  corner. 
So  worn  and  wrinkled  and  brown, 
With  its  emptiness  confutes  you, 
And  argues  your  wisdom  down. 


COMMEMORATION  ODE. 
Harvard  University,  July  21,  1S65. 

■  •  •  •  • 

Like  may  be  given  in  many  ways. 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 
So  generous  is  Fate  ; 
But  then  to  stand  lieside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her. 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms,  and  not  to  yield,  — 
Tliis  sliows,  metliinks,  God's  jilan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man. 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds. 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's 

solid  earth. 
Not  forced  to  fiame  excuses  for  liis 
birth, 
Fed  from  witliin  with  all  the  strength  he 

ne(Mls. 
Such  M-as  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 
With  ashes  on  her  licad. 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 


Forgive  me,   if  from    present  things   I 

turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and 

burn. 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-hon- 
ored urn. 
Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 
And  cannot  make  a  man 
Save  on  some  worn-out  i)lan, 
llepeating  us  ,by  rote  : 
For  him   her  Old-World   moulds   aside 
she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the 

breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new. 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God, 
and  true. 
How  beautiful  to  see 
Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed. 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved 

to  lead ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed 
to  be. 
Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth. 
But    by   his    clear-gi-ained    human 
worth. 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace   is 

dust ; 
They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In   that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering 
skill. 
And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect   steel   to   spiing 
again  and  thrust. 
His  was   no   lonely  mountain-peak 

of  mind. 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy 

bars, 
A  seamark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors 

blind ; 
Broad   prairie   rather,  genial,  level- 
lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  himinn 
kind. 
Yet  also  nigh  to  Heaven  and  loved   of 
loftiest  stars. 
Nothing  (if  Europe  here. 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornwaid 
still. 
Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 
Could  Nature's  ecjual  sehenm  deface  ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder 
race, 
And  one  of  Plutarcii's  men  talked  with 
us  face  to  face. 


MARIA.   WHITE   LOWELL. 


229 


I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late  ; 
And  some  inuative  vveakues.s  there  must 

be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and   cannot 
wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide. 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime. 
Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and 

drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour. 
But  at  last  silence  comes : 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a 

tower. 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 
The   kindly-earnest,   brave,  foreseeing 
man. 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading   praise,  not 
blame. 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first 
American. 


We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  fiows  with  Freedom's  honey  and 

milk  : 
But  'twas  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as 
silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our 

best ;  — 
Ah,  me  !  not  all !  some  come  not  with 
the  rest. 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any 

here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my 
strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 
And  will  not  please  the  ear; 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away  in  pain. 
Ill  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb 

turf  wraps. 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to 
gain  : 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 
I  with  uncovered  head 
Salute  the  saci'ed  dead, 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not. — 
Sa}'  not  so  ! 


'T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  icpay, 

But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the 
way ; 

Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the 
grave ; 

No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave  ; 
And  to  the  saner  nund 

We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  be- 
hind. 

Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow  ! 

For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence 
lack  : 

I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row. 

With  ever-youthful   brows   that   nobler 
show  ; 

W^e  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining 
track ; 
In  ever}'  nobler  mood 

We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 

Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good. 

Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration  ; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 

Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted 
ways. 

Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 

Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Ex- 
pectation ! 


MAPJA. WHITE  LOWELL. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1821-1853.] 

THE  ALPINE   SHEEP. 

Whex  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled. 
And  tender  sympathy  upburst, 

A  little  spiing  from  memory  welled, 
Which  once  had  quenched  my  bitter 
thirst. 

And  I  was  fain  to  bear  to  you 

A  portion  of  its  mild  relief. 
That  it  might  be  as  healing  dew. 

To  steal  some  fever  from  your  grief. 

After  our  child's  untroubled  breath 
Up  to  the  Father  took  its  way, 

Anil  on  our  home  the  shade  of  Death 
Like  a  long  twilight  haunting  lay, 

And  friends  came  round,  with  us  to  weep 
Her  little  spirit's  swift  reniove. 

The  story  of  the  Alpine  sheep 
Was  told  to  us  by  one  we  love. 


230 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


They,  in  the  valley's  sheltering  care, 
Soon  crop  the  meadow's  tender  prime, 

And  when  the  sod  grows  brown  and  bare. 
The  slicpherd  strives  to  make  them 
climb 

To  airy  slielves  of  pasture  green, 

That  hang  along  the  mountain's  side, 

\Vliere  grass  and  Howcn's  together  lean, 
And  (iown  through  mist  the  sunbeams 
slide. 

But  naught  can  tempt  the  timid  things 
The  steep  and  rugged  patlis  to  try. 

Though   sweet   the   shepherd  calls  and 
sings, 
And  seared  below  the  pastures  lie, 

Till  in  his  anns  their  lambs  he  takes, 
Along  the  dizzy  verge  to  go  ; 

Then,  heedless  of  the  rifts  and  breaks. 
They  follow  on,  o'er  rock  and  snow. 

Anil  in  those  pastures,  lifted  fair, 
More  dewy-soft  than  lowland  mead, 

The  shepherd  diojis  his  tender  care. 
And  sheep  and  lambs  together  feed. 

This  parable,  by  Nature  breathed, 
Blew  on  me  as  the  south-wind  free 

O'er  frozen  brooks,  that  flo^v  unsheathed 
From  icy  thraldom  to  the  sea. 

A  V)lissful  vision,  tlirough  the  night. 
Would  all  my  hapjiy  senses  sway, 

Of  tile  good  Shepherd  on  the  height, 
Or  climbing  up  the  starry  way. 

Holding  our  little  lamb  asleep, — 
While,  like  the  murnmr  of  the  sea, 

Sounded  that  voice  along  the  deep. 
Saying,  "  Arise  and  follow  me ! " 


THOMAS  W.  PARSONS. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

CAMPANILE  DE  PISA. 

Snow  was  glistening  on  the  mountains, 
but  tlie  air  was  that  of  June, 

Leaves  were  falling,  but  tiie  I'linni'ls  play- 
ing still  their  sunnner  tune, 


And  the  dial's  lazy  shadow  hovered  nigh 

the  brink  of  noon. 
On  the  benches  in  tlie  market,  rows  of 

languid  idlers  lay, 
When  to  I'isa's  nodding  belfry,  with  a 

friend,  1  took  my  way. 

From  the  top  we  looked  around  us,  and 

as  far  as  eye  might  strain. 
Saw  no  .sign  of  life  or  motion  in  the  town, 

or  on  the  plain. 
Hardly  seemed  the  river  moving,  through 

the  willows  to  the  main  ; 
Nor  was  any  noise  disturbing  Pisa  from 

her  drowsy  hour. 
Save  the  doves  that  fluttered  'neath  us, 

in  and  out  and  round  the  tower. 

Not  a  shout  from  gladsome  children,  or 

the  clatter  of  a  wheel. 
Nor  the  spinner  of  the  suburb,  Avinding 

his  discordant  reel, 
Xor  the  stroke  upon  the  pavement  of  a 

hoof  or  of  a  heel. 
Even  the  slumberers,  in  the  churchyard 

of  the  Campo  Santo  seemed 
Scarce  more  quiet  than  the  living  world 

that  underneath  us  dreamed. 

Dozing  at  the  city's  portal,  heedless  guard 

tlie  sentry  kept. 
More  than  oriental  dulness  o'er  the  sunny 

farms  had  crept. 
Near  the  walls  the  ducal  herdsman  by  the 

dusty  roadside  slept ; 
While  his  camels,    resting  round  him, 

half  alarmed  the  sullen  ox, 
Seeing  those  Arabian  nionstei's  pasturing 

with  Etruria's  Hocks. 

Then  it  was,  like  one  who  wandered,  late- 
ly, singing  by  the  IJhine, 

Strains  ])erehanee  to  maiden's  heaiing 
sweeter  tiian  this  verse  of  mine. 

That  we  bade  Imagination  lift  us  on  her 
wing  divine. 

And  the  days  of  Pisa's  greatness  rose  from 
the  sepulchral  past, 

Whcnathousan<l  eonipiering  galleys  bore 
her  standard  at  the  mast. 

Jlemory  for  a  moment  crowned  her  sov- 
ereign mistress  of  the  seas, 

When  sheliraved,  upon  the  billows,  "N'en- 
iee  and  the  (Genoese, 

Daring  to  deride  the  Pontiff,  though  he 
shook  his  angry  keys. 


THOMAS   W.   PARSONS. 


231 


When  her  admirals  triumphant,   riding 

o'er  the  Sohlan's  waves, 
Brought  from  (.'alvary's  lioly  mountain 

fitting  soil  for  knightly  graves. 

When  the  Saracen  surrendered,  one  by 

one,  his  jiirate  isles. 
And    Ionia's    marbled    trojdiies    decked 

Luiigarno's  Gothic  ])iles, 
Where  the  festal  music  floated  in  the  light 

of  ladies'  smiles ; 
Soldiers  in  the  busy  court-yard,  nobles 

in  tiie  hall  above, 
O,  those  days  of  arms  are  over, — arms  ami 

courtesy  and  love ! 

Down  in  yonder  square  at  sunrise,  lo ! 

the  Tuscan  troops  arrayed, 
Every  man  in  Milan    armor,  forged  in 

Brescia  every  blade  : 
Sigismondi  is  their  captain  —  Florence  ! 

art  thou  not  dismayed  ? 
There 's  Lanfranchi !  there  the  bravest  of 

Gherardesca  stem, 
Hugolino — with  the  bishop ;  but  enough, 

enough  of  them. 

Now,  as  on  Achilles'  buckler,  next  a 
peaceful  scene  succeeds  ; 

Pious  crowds  in  the  cathedral  duly  tell 
their  blessed  beads ; 

Students  walk  the  h^arned  cloister; 
Ariosto  wakes  the  reeds ; 

Science  dawns ;  and  Galileo  opens  to  the 
Italian  youth, 

As  he  were  a  new  Columbus,  new  dis- 
covered realms  of  truth. 


Hark ;  what  murmurs  from  the  million 

in  the  bustling  market  rise  ! 
All  the  lanes  are  loud   with  voices,  all 

the  windows  dark  with  eyes  ; 
■Black  with  men  the  mai'ble  l)ridges,heaped 

the  shores  with  merchandise  ; 
Turks  and  Greeks  and  Libyan  merchants 

in  the  square  their  councils  hold. 
And  the  Christian  altars  flitter  gorgeous 

with  Byzantine  gold. 

Look  !  anon  the  masqueraders  don  their 

holiday  attire ; 
Every  palace  is  illumined,  — all  the  town 

seems  built  of  tire,  — 
Eainbow-colored   lanterns  dangle    from 

the  top  of  every  spire. 


Pisa's  patron  saint  hath  hallowed  to  him- 
self the  joyful  day, 

Never  on  the  tlnonged  Kialto  showed  the 
Carnival  more  gay. 

Suddenly  the  bell  beneath  us  broke  the 

vision  with  its  chime  ; 
"Signors,"  quoth    our   gray  attendant, 

"it  is  almost  vesper  time"  ; 
Vulgar  life  resumed  its  empire,  —  down  we 

dropt  from  the  sublime. 
Here  and  there  a  fiiar  passed  us,  as  we 

paced  the  silent  stieets, 
And  a  cardinal's  lumbling carriage  roused 

the  sleepers  fiom  the  seats. 


ON  A  BUST  OF  DANTE. 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 

Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 
How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song. 
There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 

Perpetual  care  and  scorn  abide ; 
Small  friendship  for  the  loi'dly  throng; 

Distrust  of  all  the  woild  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be. 

No  dream  his  life  was, —  but  a  fight; 
Could  any  Bj;atrice  see 

A  lover  in  that  anchorite? 
To  that  cold  Ghibeline's  gloomy  sight 

Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions 
came 
Of  beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame? 

The  li[)s,  as  Cumoe's  cavern  close. 

The  cheeks,  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 
The  rigid  front,  almost  morose. 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within. 
Declare  a  life  whose  course  hath  been 

Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe. 
Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin, 

Keep  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  sucli  his  haggard  look 

When    wandering     once,    forlorn    he 
strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 

To  Corvo's  hushed  monastic  shade: 
Wheie,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 

His  palm  upon  the  pilgrim -guest, 
The  sincfle  boon  for  which  he  jirayed 

The  convent's  charity  was  rest. 


232 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Peace  dwells  not  here,  — this  rugged  face 

Fietrays  no  s[)irit  of  repose ; 
The  sullen  wanior  sole  we  trace, 
'  The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 
Such  was  his  mien  wlicii  lirst  arose 

The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine, 
AVlien  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a  guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 

The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth  ; 
Jiaron  and  duke,  in  holil  and  hall. 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him 
birth; 
He  used  Rome's  harlot  for  his  mirth  ; 

I'luekcd  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime  ; 
But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 

Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O  Time  !  whose  verdicts  mock  onr  own, 

The  oidy  righteous  judge  art  thou ; 
That  ])oor  old  exile,  sad  and  lone. 

Is  Latium's  other  Virgil  now : 
Before  his  name  the  nations  bow : 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 
Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow. 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante's  mind. 


JOHN  G.  SAXE. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

WISHING. 

Of  all  amusements  for  the  mind, 

From  logic  down  to  Kshing, 
There  is  n't  one  that  you  can  find 

So  very  cheap  as  "wishing." 
A  very  choice  (liv(M-sion  too, 

If  we  but  rightly  use  it. 
And  not,  as  we  are  apt  to  do, 

Pervert  it,  and  abuse  it. 

I  wish — ^a  common  wish,  indeed  — 

My  purse  were  somewhat  fatter, 
That  1  might  cheer  the  child  of  need, 

And  not  my  priile  to  Hatter  ; 
That  I  nnght  make  Opjiression  reel. 

As  only  gold  can  make  it. 
And  br(>ak  tlie  Tyrant's  rod  of  steel, 

As  only  gold  can  break  it. 

I  wish  —  that  Sympathy  and  Love, 
And  every  human  passion 


That  has  its  origin  above. 

Would  come  and  keep  in  fashion  ; 
That  Scorn  and  Jealousy  and  Hate, 

And  every  base  emotion, 
Were  buried  fifty  fathom  deep 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Ocean  ! 

I  wish  —  that  friends  were  always  true, 

And  motives  always  i)ure  ; 
I  wish  the  good  were  not  so  few, 

I  wish  the  bad  were  fewer  ; 
I  wish  that  ]iarsons  ne'er  forgot 

To  heed  their  pious  teaching  ; 
I  wish  that  jn-actising  was  not 

So  dili'erent  from  preaching  ! 

I  wish  —  that  modest  worth  might  be 

Appraised  with  truth  and  candor  ; 
I  wish  that  innocence  were  free 

From  treachery  and  slander  ; 
I  wish  tliat  men  their  vows  would  mind ; 

That  women  ne'er  were  rovers  ; 
I  wish  that  wives  weie  always  kind, 

And  husbands  always  lovers  ! 

I  wish  —  in  fine  —  that  Joy  and  Mirth, 

And  every  good  Ideal, 
May  come  erewhile  throughout  the  earth 

To  be  the  gloiions  Real  ; 
Till  Ood  shall  every  creature  bless 

With  his  supremest  blessing. 
And  Hope  be  lost  in  Happiness, 

And  Wishing  in  Possessing  ! 


SLEEP  AND  DEATH. 

Two  wandering  angels,  Sleep  and  Death, 
Once  met  in  sunny  weather  : 

And  while  the  twain  wen^  taking  breath, 
They  held  discourse  together. 

Quoth  Sleep  (whose  face,  though  twice 
as  fair, 

AVas  strangely  like  the  other's,  — 
So  like,  in  sooth,  that  anywhere 

They  nnght  have  passed  for  brothers)  : 

"A  busy  life  is  mine,  I  trow, 

Would  I  were  onmipresent  ! 
So  fast  and  far  have  1  to  go  ; 

And  yet  my  work  is  pleasant. 

"  I  cast  my  potent  poppies  forth. 
And  lo  !  —  the  cares  that  cumber 


SARAH   HELEN   WHITMAN. 


233 


The  toiling,  suffering  sons  of  earth 
Are  drowned  in  sweetest  slumber. 

"The  student  rests  his  weary  brain, 
And  waits  the  fresher  morrow  ; 

1  ease  the  patient  of  his  pain, 
Tlie  mourner  of  his  sorrow. 

"  1  bar  tlie  gates  where  cares  abide, 

And  open  Pleasure's  portals 
To  visioned  joj's ;  thus,  far  and  wide, 

I  earn  the  praise  of  mortals." 

"  Alas  ! "  replied  the  other,  "  mine 

Is  not  a  task  so  grateful ; 
Howe'er  to  mercy  I  incline, 

To  mortals  1  am  hateful. 

"They  call  me  '  Kill-joy,'  cverj'  one. 
And  speak  in  sharp  detraction 

Of  all  I  do  ;  yet  have  I  done 
Full  many  a  kindly  action." 

"  Tme  !  "  answered  Sleep,  "but  all  the 
while 

Thine  office  is  berated, 
'T  is  only  liy  the  vile  and  weak 

That  thou  art  feared  and  hated. 

"And  though  thy  work  on  earth  has 
given 

To  all  a  shade  of  sadness  ; 
Consider  —  every  saint  in  heaven 

Remembers  thee  with  gladness  !  " 


SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

A  STILL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

I  LOVE  to  wander  through  tlie  wood- 
lands hoary 
In  the  soft  light  of  an  autumnal  day, 
When  Summer  gathers  up  her  robes  of 
glory. 
And   like  a  dream   of  beauty  glides 
away. 

How  through  each  loved,  familiar  path 
she  lingers. 
Serenely  smiling  through  the  golden 
mist, 


Tinting  the  wild  grape  vtith  her  dewy 
fingers 
Till  the.  cool  emerald  turns  to  ame- 
thyst : 

Kindling  the  faint  stars  of  the  hazel, 
shining 
To  light  the  gloom  of  Autumn's  moul- 
dering halls 
With  hoary  plumes  the  clematis  entwin- 
ing ^ 
Where  o'er  the  rock  her  withered  gar- 
land falls. 


Warm  lights  are  on  the  sleepy  uplands 
waning 
Beneath  soft  clouds  along  the  horizon 
rolled. 
Till  the  slant  sunbeams  through  their 
fringes  raining 
Bathe  all  the  hills  in  melancholy  gold. 


The    moist   w-inds    breathe   of   crisped 
leaves  and  flowers 
In  the  damp  hollows  of  the  woodland 
sown. 
Mingling    the    freshness    of    autumnal 
showers 
With   spicy  airs  from  cedarn  alleys 
blown. 

Beside  the  brook  and  on  the  umbered 
meadow. 
Where  yellow  fern-tufts  fleck  the  faded 
ground, 
With  folded   lids  beneath  their  palmy 
shadow 
The  gentian  nods,  in  dewy  slumbers 
bound. 

Upon  those  soft,  fringed  lids  the  bee  sits 
brooding. 
Like  a  fond  lover  loath  to  say  farewell, 
Or    with    shut    wings,    through    silken 
folds  intruding, 
Creeps  near  her  heart  his  drowsy  tale 
to  tell. 

The  little  birds  upon  the  hillside  lonely 
Flit  noiselessly  along  from  si)ray  to 
spray. 
Silent  as   a   sweet  wandering    thought 
that  only 
Show's   its    bright   wings    and    softly 
glides  away. 


234 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES, 


ALFRED  B.  STREET. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  SETTLER. 

His  eclioing  axe  the  settler  swung 

Amid  the  sea-like  solitude, 
And,    rushing,    thundering,   down  were 
Hung 

The  Titans  of  the  wood  ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  eagle,  as  he  dashed 
From  out  his  mossy  nest,  which  crashed 

With  its  sujiporting  bough, 
And  the  first  sunlight,  leaping,  flashed 

On  the  wolfs  haunt  below. 

Iiudc  was  the  garb,  and  strong  the  frame 

Of  him  who  plied  his  ceaseless  toil : 
To  form  that  garb  the  wild-wood  game 

Contributed  their  spoil  ; 
The  soul  that  warmed  that  frame  dis- 
dained 
The  tinsel,  gaud,  and  glare,  that  reigned 

Where  men  their  crowds  collect  ; 
The  simple  fur,  untrimmed,  unstained. 

This  forest-tamer  decked. 

The  paths  which  wound  mid  gorgeous 
trees, 

The  stream  whose  bright  lips  kissed 
their  flowers. 
The  winds  that  swelled  their  liarmonies 

Through  those  sun-hiding  liowers, 
The  tenijde  vast,  the  green  arcnde. 
The  nestling  vale,  the  grassy  glade, 

Dark  cave,  and  swampy  lair  : 
These  scenes  and  sounds  majestic  made 

His  world,  his  pleasures,  there. 

His  roof  adorned  a  pleasant  spot, 

Mid  the  black  logs  green  glowed  the 
grain. 
And  lierbs  and  plants  the  woods  knew 
not 

Throve  in  the  sun  and  rain. 
Tiie  smoke-wrrath  curling  o'er  the  dell. 
The  low,  the  bleat,  the  tinkling  bell. 

All  made  a  landscape  straiige, 
Which  was  the  living  chronicle 

Of  deeds  that  wrought  the  change. 

The  violet  sprung  at  spring's  first  tinge. 
The  rose  of  summer  spread  its  glow. 

Till-  m;iizc  hung  out  its  autumn  fringe, 
Ihide  winter  bi-onght  his  snow  ; 

And  stiy  the  lone  one  labored  there, 


His  shout  and  whistle  broke  the  air, 

As  cheerily  he  plied 
His  garden-si)ade,  or  drove  his  share 


Along  the  hillock's  side. 


He  marked  the  fire-storm's  blazing  flood 

Roaiing  and  crackling  on  its  i)ath. 
And  scorching  earth,  and  melting  wood, 

Beneath  its  greedy  wrath  ; 
He  marked  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine-tree  with  its  foot. 

And  darkening  thick  the  day 
With  streaming  liough  and  severed  root. 

Hurled  whizzing  on  its  way. 

His  gaunt  hound  yelled,  his  rifle  flashed, 

The  grim  bear  hushed  his  savage  growl ; 
In    blood   and   and    foam   the    ])anther 
gnashed 

His  fangs,  with  dying  howl ; 
The  fleet  deer  ceased  its  flying  bound, 
Its  snarling  wolf-foe  bit  the  ground, 

And,  with  its  moaning  cry. 
The  beaver  sank  beneath  the  wound 

Its  pond-built  Venice  by. 

Humble  the  lot,  yet  his  the  race, 

AVhen  Liberty  sent  forth  her  cry. 
Who   thronged    in    conflict's    deadliest 
place. 

To  fight,  —to  bleed,  —to  die  ! 
Who  cumbered  Bunker's  height  of  red, 
By  hope  through  weary  years  were  led. 

And  witnessed  Yorktown's  sun 
Blaze  on  a  nation's  banner  spread, 

A  nation's  freedom  won. 


CHRISTOPHER  P.  CRANCH. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

KNOWING. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought ; 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils ; 

^lan  by  man'  was  never  sc>en  ; 
All  our  deep  comnmning  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known, 
Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 


WILLIAM   E.   CHANNING.  —  JULIA  WAED   HOWE. 


235 


We  are  columns  left  alone 
Of  ii  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart,  thougli  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie ; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  l)abl)ling  summer  stream? 
What  our  wise  philosopliy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought ; 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught ; 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  Fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
And  by  inspiration  led, 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth. 

We  like  parted  drops  of  rain 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run. 

Shall  Vie  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


WILLIAM  E.  CHANGING. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

SLEEPY   HOLLOW. 

No  abbey's  gloom,  nor  dark  cathedral 
stoops. 
No  winding  torches  paint  the  midnight 
air; 
Here  the  green  pines  delight,  tlie  aspen 
droojis 
Along  the  modest  jiathways,  and  those 
iair 
Pale   asters   of  the  season  spread  their 
plumes 
Around  this  field,  fit  garden  for  our 
tombs. 

And  shalt  thou  pause  to  hear  some  fu- 
neral bell 
Slow   sti'aling  o'er  thy  heart  in  this 
calm  place, 
Not  with  a  tlirol)  of  jiain,  a  feverish  knell, 
But  in  its  kind  and  supplicating  grace. 


It  says.  Go,  pilgrim,  on  thy  march,  be 
more 
Friend  to  the  friendless  than  thou  wast 
before ; 

Learn  from  the  loved  one's  rest  serenity; 
To-morrow  that  soft  bell  for  thee  shall 
sound, 
And  thou  lepose  beneath  the  whisper- 
ing tree. 
One  tribute  more  to  this  submissive 
ground ; — 
Prison  thy  soul  from  malice,  bar  out  pride. 
Nor  these  pale  flowers  nor  this  still 
field  deride : 

Eather  to  those  ascents  of  being  turn, 
Where  a  ne'er-setting  sun  illumes  the 
year 
Eternal,   and   the   incessant   watch-fires 
buin 
Of    nnspent    holiness    and    goodness 
clear,  — 
Forget  man's  littleness,  deserve  the  best, 
God's  mercy  in  thy  thought  and  lifs 
confest. 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE.  , 

[U.  S.  A.] 

FROM  "A  TRIBUTE  TO  A  SERVANT." 

Not  often  to  the  parting  soul 
Does  Life  in  dreary  grimness  show  ; 
Earth's  captive,  leaving  ]n-ison-walls, 
Beholds  them  touched  with  sunset  glow. 

And  she  forgot  her  sleepless  nights, 
Her  weaiy  tasks  of  foot  and  hand, 
And,  soothed  with  thoughts  of  pleasant- 
ness, 
Lay  floating  towards  the  silent  land. 

The  talk  of  comfortable  honrs, 
The  merry  dancing  tunes  I  played, 
Gay  ban(iuets  with  the  children  shared, 
And  summer  days  in  greenwood  shatle, — 

The}'  lay  far  scattered  in  the  past. 
Through  the  dim  vista  of  disease  ; 
Viut  when  1  spake,  and  held  her  hand, 
The   parting  cloud  showed  things  like 
these. 


236 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


I  (Hiestionod  not  her  peace  with  God, 
Nor  i)rie(l  into  lier  guiltless  mind, 
Like  those  unsivilt'ul  surgeon-priests 
Who  rack  the  soul  witli  probings  blind. 

For  I  've  seen  men  who  meant  not  ill 
Compelling  doctrine  out  of  Death, 
With  Hell  and  Heaven  acutely  poised 
Upon  the  turning  of  a  breath; 

Wliile  agonizing  judgments  hung 
Ev"n  on  the  Saviour's  helpful  name; 
As  mild  Madonna's  form,  of  old, 
A  hideous  torture-tool  became. 

I  could  but  say,  with  faltering  voice 
And  eyes  that  glanced  aside  to  weep, 
"  Be  strong  in  faith  and  hope,  my  child ; 
He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

"  .\nd  though  thou  walk  the  shadowy  vale 
Whose  end  we  know  not.  He  will  aid; 
His  rod  and  staff  shall  stay  thy  steps." 
"1  know  it  well, "she  smiled  and  said. 

She  knew  it  well,  and  knew  yet  more 
My  deepest  hope,  though  uiiexprest. 
The  hope  that  God's  appointed  sleep 
But  heightens  ravishment  with  rest. 

My  children,  living  flowers,  shall  come 
And  strew  with  seed  this  grave  of  thine. 
And  bid  the  blushing  growths  of  Spring 
Thy  dreary  painted  cross  entwine. 

Thus  Faith,  cast  out  of  barren  creeds, 
Sliall  rest  in  emblems  of  her  own  ; 
Beauty  still  springing  from  De(;ay, 
The  cross-wood  budding  to  the  crown. 


BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  tlie 

coming  of  the  Lord : 
He  is  trampling  out  tlie  vintage  where 

the  grapes  of  wrath  are  stored  ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of 

his  terrible  swift  sword  ; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  liim  in  the  watch-fires  of  a 
hundred  circling  camps; 

They  have  buildeil  him  an  altar  in  the 
eveuimr  dews  ?nd  damps; 


I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  bj'  the 
dim  and  Haring  lamps. 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  bur- 
nished rows  of  steel : 

"As   ye   deal    with    my   contemners,  so 
with  you  my  grace  shall  deal ; 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the 
serpent  with  his  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that 
shall  never  call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before 
his  judgment-seat : 

0,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him !  be 
jubilant,  my  feet ! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In   the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was 
born  across  the  sea, 

With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  trans- 
figures you  and  me : 

As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die 
to  make  men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 


H.  D.  TITOPiEAU. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

INSPIRATION". 

If  with  light  head  erect  I  sing, 
Though  ail  the  Muses  lend  their  force, 
From  my  poor  love  of  anything, 
The  verse   is  weak  and  shallow  as  its 
source. 

But  if  with  bended  neck  I  grope, 
Listening  behind  me  for  my  wit, 
With  faith  superior  to  hope, 
More   anxious  to  keep   back   than  for- 
ward it ; 

Making  my  soul  accomplice  there 
Unto  the  flame  my  heart  hath  lit. 
Then  will  the  verse  forever  wear,  — 
Time  cannot  bend  the  line  which  God 
has  writ. 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 
I  And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before  ; 


ELIZABETH   LLOYD   HOWELL. 


C.    F.    ALEXANDER. 


237 


I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 
And  tiutli  discern,  who  knew  but  learn- 
ing's lore. 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 
And  only  now  my  prime  of  life, 
Of  manhood's  strength  it  is  the  flower, 
'T  is    peace's   end,  and  war's  beginning 
strife. 

It  comes  in  summer's  broadest  noon. 
By  a  gray  wall,  or  some  chance  place, 
Unseasoning  time,  insulting  June, 
And  vexing  day  with  its  presuming  face. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold 
Which   not   my  worth   nor  want  hath 

bought. 
Which  wooed  me  young,  and  wooed  me 

old, 
And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought. 


ELIZABETH  LLOYD  HOWELL. 

[U.  S.   A.] 

MILTON'S  PRAYER  IN  BLINDNESS. 

I  AM  old  and  blind  ! 
Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  God's 

frown  ; 
Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind  ; 

Yet  I  am  not  cast  down. 

I  am  weak,  yet  strong  ; 
T  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see  ; 
Poor,    old,    and    helpless,    I    the    more 
belong. 

Father  supreme  !  to  thee. 

0  merciful  One  ! 
When  men  are  farthest,  then  thou  art 

most  near  ; 
When  friends  pass  by  me,  and  my  weak- 
ness shun. 
Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 
Is   leaning    towai-d   me ;    and   its    holy 

light 
Shines    in    upon    my    lonely    dwelling- 
place,  — 
And  there  is  no  more  night.  I 


On  my  bended  knee 
I  recognize  thy  purpose  clearly  shown  : 
My   vision   thou   hast   dimmed,   that   I 
may  see 

Thyself,  —  thyself  alone. 

I  have  naught  to  fear  ; 
This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  thy  wing ; 
Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred  ;  here 

Can  come  no  evil  thing. 

0,  I  seem  to  stand 
Trembling,   where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er 

hath  been, 
Wiapped  in  the  radiance  of  thy  sinless 
land. 
Which  ej^e  hath  never  seen  ! 

Visions  come  and  go  : 
Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me 

throng  ; 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

Is  it  nothing  now; 
When  heaven  is  opening  on  my  sight- 
less ej'es  ?  — 
When    airs   from    paradise    refresh    my 
brow. 
The  earth  in  darkness  lies. 

In  a  purer  clime 
My  being  fills  with  rapture,  — waves  of 

thought 
Roll  in  upon  my  spirit,  —  strains  sublime 

Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  my  lyre  ! 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine  : 
Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire, 

Lit  b}'  no  skill  of  mine. 


C.  F.  ALEXANDER. 

THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 

In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave. 

And  no  man  knows  that  sepulchre. 

And  no  man  .saw  it  e  er, 

For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there.      ♦ 


238 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth  ; 

bat  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth  : 

Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  back  when  night  is  done, 

And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun. 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves  ; 

So  without  sound  of  music 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 

Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle 

On  gray  Beth-Peor's  height, 

Out  of  his  lonely  eyrie 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight  ; 

Perchance  the  lion,  stalking. 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot. 

For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 

AVith  arms  reversetl  and  muffled  drum. 

Follow  his  funeral  car  ; 

They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won. 

And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

AVhile  peals  the  minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land, 

We  lay  the  sage  to  rest. 

And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place 

With  costly  marble  drest, 

In  the  great  miuster  transept 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall. 

And  the  organ  rings  and  the  sweet  choir 

sings 
Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  truest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword. 

This  the  most  gifted  [loet 

That  ever  breathed  a  woi'il  ; 

And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen. 

On   the  deathless  page,   truths   half  so 

sage 
As  he  *n)te  down  for  men. 


And  had  he  not  high  honor,  — 

The  hillside  for  a  pall 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall. 

And   the  dark   rock-pines   like   tossing 

plumes 
Over  his  bier  to  wave. 
And  God's   own   hand,   in   that  lonely 

land, 
Today  him  in  the  grave  ? 

In  that  strange  grave  without  a  name 

Whence  his  uncottined  clay 

Shall  break  again,  0  wondrous  thought ! 

Before  the  jmlgnient-day. 

And  stand  with  glory  wrapt  around 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod. 

And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 

With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 

0  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land  ! 

0  dark  Beth-Peor's  hill  ! 

Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 

God  hath  his  inysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell  ; 

He  hides  them  deep,   like  the  hidden 

sleep 
Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 


E.  H.  SEARS. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 
Come  Heaven's  melodious  strains, 

Where  wild  Judaa  stretches  far 
Her  silver-mantled  plains  ! 

Celestial  choirs,  from  courts  above. 

Shed  sacred  glories  there  ; 
And  angels,  with  their  sparkling  lyres, 

Make  music  on  the  air. 

The  answering  hills  of  Palestine 
Send  back  the  glad  reply  ; 

And  gi'eet,  from  all  their  holy  heights, 
The  dayspring  from  on  high. 

On  the  blue  depths  of  Galilee 
There  comes  a  holier  calm. 

And  Shiiron  waves,  in  solemn  praise, 
Her  silent  groves  of  palm. 


THEODORE  PARKER.  —  FREDERIC  WILLIAM  FABER. 


239 


"Glory  to  God  !  "  the  sounding  skies 
Loud  with  their  anthems  ring  ; 

Peace  to  the  earth,  good-will  to  men, 
From  heaven's  Eternal  King  ! 

Light  on  thy  hills,  Jerusalem ! 

The  Saviour  now  is  born  ! 
And  bright  on  Bethlehem's  joyous  plains 

Breaks  the  first  Christmas  morn. 


THEODOrtE  PAEKER. 

[U.  S.  A.,  1812-  i860.] 

THE  WAY,  THE  TRUTH,  AKD  THE  LIFE. 

0  THOU,  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons  of 
men, 
Who  once  appeared  in  humblest  guise 
below. 
Sin  to  rebuke,  to  break  the  captive's  chain, 
And  call  thy  brethren  forth  from  \\ant 
and  woe,  — 

We  look  to  thee !  thy  truth  is  still  the 
Light 
Which  guides  the  nations,  groping  on 
their  way. 
Stumbling  and  fallingindisastrousnight, 
Yet  hoping  ever  for  the  j)erfect  day. 

Yes ;  thou  art  still  the  Life,  thou  art  the 
Way 
The   holiest   know ;    Light,  Life,  the 
Way  of  heaven ! 
And  they  who  dearest  hope  and  deepest 
pray 
Toil  by  the  Light,  Life,  Way,  which 
thou  hast  given. 


FREDERIC  WILLIAM  FABER. 

[i8is-*863.] 

THE  WILL  OF  GOD. 

I  WORSHIP  thee,  sweet  Will  of  God  ! 

And  all  thy  ways  adore, 
And  every  day  I  live  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  moi'e. 

When  ob.stacles  and  trials  seem 
Like  prison-walls  to  be, 


I  do  the  little  I  can  do, 
And  leave  the  rest  to  thee. 

I  have  no  cares,  0  blessed  Will ! 

For  all  my  cares  are  thine; 
I  live  in  triumph,  Lord  !  for  thou 

Hast  made  thy  triumphs  mine. 

And  when  it  seems  no  chance  or  change 

From  grief  can  set  me  free, 
Hope  finds  its  strength  in  helplessness, 

And  gayly  waits  on  thee. 

Man's  weakness  waiting  upon  God 

Its  end  can  never  miss. 
For  men  on  earth  no  work  can  do 

Moi'e  angel-like  than  this. 

He  always  wins  who  sides  with  God, 

To  him  no  chance  is  lost ; 
God's  will  is  sweetest  to  him  when 

It  triumphs  at  his  cost. 

Ill  that  he  blesses  is  our  good, 

And  unblest  good  is  ill ; 
And  all  is  right  that  seems  most  wrong, 

If  it  be  liis  sweet  Will ! 


THE  EIGHT  MUST  WIN. 

0,  IT  is  liard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  his  part 
Upon  this  battle-field  of  earth, 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart ! 

He  hides  himself  so  wondrously. 
As  though  there  were  no  God  ; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  he  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost ; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  we  need  him  most. 

Ill  masters  good,  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposes. 

Ah  !  God  is  other  than  we  think  ; 

His  ways  are  far  above. 
Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reached 

Only  bv  childlike  love. 


240 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Workman  of  God  !  0,  lose  not  heart, 
But  learn  what  God  is  like ; 

And  in  tiie  darkest  hattle- field 
Thou  blialt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  West  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  he 

Is  most  invisible. 

Blest,  too,  is  lie  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie. 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 

AVrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God ; 

And  right  the  day  must  win  ; 
To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin  ! 

« — • 


DAVID    A.WASSaN. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

SEEN  AND  UNSEEN. 

TifE  wind  ahead,  the  billows  high, 
A  whited  wave,  but  sable  sky. 
And  many  a  league  of  tossing  sea, 
Between  the  hearts  1  love  and  me. 

The  wind  ahead  :  day  after  day 
These  weary  words  tlie  sailors  say; 
To  weeks  the  days  are  lengthened  now,  — 
Still  mounts  the  surge  to  meet  our  prow. 

Through  longing  day  and  lingering  night 
I  still  accuse  Time's  lagging  flight, 
Or  gaze  out  o'er  the  envious  sea, 
Tiiat  keeps  the  liearts  I  love  from  me. 

Yet,  ah,  how  shallow  is  all  grief ! 
How  instant  is  the  deep  relief! 
And  what  a  hypocrite  ani  I, 
To  feign  forlorn,  to  '])lain  and  sigh  ! 

The  wind  ahead?     The  wind  is  free ! 
Forevermore  it  favoreth  me,  — 
To  shores  of  God  still  blowing  fair, 
O'er  seas  of  God  my  bark  doth  bear. 

The  surging  brine  /  do  not  sail. 
This  blast  adveyse  is  not  my  gale  ; 


'T  is  here  I  only  seem  to  be. 
But  really  sail  another  sea,  — 

Another  sea,  pure  sky  its  waves, 
Whose  beauty  hides  noheaving  graves,— 
A  sea  all  haven,  whereupon 
No  hapless  bark  to  wreck  hath  gone. 

The  winds  that  o'er  my  ocean  run, 
Iteach  through  all  heavens  beyond  the 

sun ; 
Through  life  and  death,    through  fate, 

"through  time. 
Grand  breaths  of  God  they  sweep  sub- 
lime. 

Eternal  trades,  they  cannot  veer, 
And  blowing,  teach  us  how  to  steer ; 
And  well  for  him  whose  joy,  whose  care, 
Is  but  to  keep  before  them  fair. 

0,  thou  God's  mariner,  heart  of  mine, 
Spread  canvas  to  the  airs  divine  ! 
Spread  sail !  and  let  thy  Fortune  be 
Forgotten  in  thy  Destiny  ! 

For  Destiny  pursues  ns  well, 

By  sea,  by  land,  through  heaven  or  hell; 

It  suIRts  Death  alone  to  die. 

Bids  life  all  change  and  chance  defy. 

Would  earth's  dark  ocean  suck  thee  down  ? 
Earth's  ocean  thou,  O  Life,  shalt  drown, 
Shalt  flood  it  with  thy  finer  wave, 
And,  sepulchred,  entomb  thy  grave  ! 

Life  loveth  life  and  good :  then  trust 
What  most  the  spirit  would,  it  must ; 
Deep  wishes,  in  the  heart  that  be, 
Are  blossoms  of  necessity, 

A  thread  of  Law  runs  through  thy  prayer, 
Stronger  than  iron  cables  are ; 
And  Love  and  Longing  toward  her  goal, 
Are  pilots  sweet  to'guide  the  soul. 

So  Life  must  live,  and  Soul  must  sail, 
And  Unseen  over  Seen  prevail, 
And  all  God's  argosies  come  to  shore, 
Let  ocean  smile,  or  rage  and  roar. 

And  so,  mid  storm  or  calm,  my  bark 
With  snowy  wake  still  nears  her  mark; 
('heerly  the  trades  of  being  blow. 
And  sweeping  down  the  wind  I  go. 


EICHARD    CHENEVIX   TRENCH. 


241 


ALL'S  WELL. 

Sweet -VOICED  Hope,  thy  fine  discourse 

Foretold  not  hah  ate's  good  to  nie  : 
Thy  painter,  Fancy,  hath  not  force 
to  show  how  sweet  it  is  to  Be ! 
Thy  witching  dream 
And  pictured  scheme 
To  match  the  fact  still  want  the  power; 
Thy  promise  brave 
From  birth  to  grave 
Life's  boon  may  beggar  in  an  hour. 

Ask  and  receive,  —'t  is  sweetly  said ; 
Yet  what  to  ])lead  for  know  1  not ; 
For  Wish  is  worsted,  Hope  o'ersped, 
And  aye  to  thanks  returns  my  thought. 

If  I  would  pray, 

I  've  naught  to  say 
But  this,  that  God  niay  be  God  still ; 

For  Him  to  live 

Is  still  to  give, 
And  sweeter  than  my  wish  His  will. 

O  wealth  of  life,  beyond  all  bound ! 

Eternity  each  moment  given  ! 
What  plummet  may  the  Present  sound? 
Who  promises  a  future  heaven  % 

Or  glad,  or  grieved. 

Oppressed,  relieved. 
In  blackest  night,  or  brightest  day, 

Still  ponrs  the  flood 

Of  golden  good, 
And  more  than  heart-full  fills  me  aye. 

My  wea'th  is  coumion  ;  I  possess 

No  petty  province,  but  the  whole  ; 
What 's  mine  alone  is  mine  far  less 
Than  treasure  shared  by  every  soul. 
Talk  not  of  store, 
Millions  or  more,  — 
Of  values  which  the  purse  may  hold,  — 
But  this  divine  ! 
I  own  the  mine 
Whose  grains  outweigh  a  planet's  gold. 

I  have  a  stake  in  every  star, 

In  every  V>eam  that  fills  the  day ; 
All  hearts  of  men  my  coffers  are. 
My  ores  arterial  tides  convey  ; 
The  fields,  the  skies, 
And  sweet  replies 
Of  thought  to  thought  are  my  gold  dust, - 
The  oaks,  the  brooks. 
And  speaking  looks 
Of  lovers'  faith  and  friendship's  trust. 
16 


Life's  youngest  tides  joy-brimming  flow 

For  him  who  lives  above  all  years, 
Who  all-immortal  makes  the  Now, 
And  is  not  ta'en  in  Time's  arrears : 

His  life  's  a  hymn 

The  seraphim 
Might  hark  to  hear  or  help  to  sing. 

And  to  his  soul 

The  boundless  whole 
Its  bounty  all  doth  daily  bring. 

"All  mine  is  thine,"  the  sky-soul  saith  : 
"The  wealth  I  am,  must  thou  become: 
Richer  and  richer,  breath  by  breath,  — 
Immortal  gain,  immortal  room  !" 

And  since  all  his 

Mine  also  is. 
Life's  gift  outruns  my  fiincies  far. 

And  drowns  the  dream 

In  larger  stream, 
As  morning  drinks  the  morning  star. 


ROYALTY. 

That   regal  soul  I  reverence,  in  whose 

eyes 
Suffices  not  all  worth  the  city  knows 
To  pay  that  del)t  which  his  own  heart 

he  owes; 
For  less  than  level  to  his  bosom  rise 
The  low  ciowd's  heaven  and  stars  :  above 

their  skies 
Runneth   the  road  his   daily  feet  have 

pressed ; 
A  loftier  heaven  he  beareth  in  his  breast, 
And  o'er  the  summits  of  achieving  hies 
With  never  a  thought  of  merit  or  of  meed ; 
Choosing  divinest  labors  through  a  jnide 
Of  soul,  that  holdeth  appetite  to  feed 
Ever  on  angel-herbage,  naught  beside; 
Nor  praises  more  liimself  for  hero-deed 
Than  stones  for  weight,  or  open  seas  for 

tide. 


RICHARD  CHEKEVIX  TRENCH. 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD. 

I  SAV  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat 

To  the  first  man  thou  mayest  meet, 

In  lane,  highway,  or  open  street, — 

That  he,  and  we,  and  all  men  move 

Under  a  canopy  of  Love,  |^ 

As  broad  as  the  blue  sky  aliove ; 


242 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


That  doubt  and  trouble,  fear  and  pain, 
And  angui.sh,  all  are  sorrows  vain  ; 
That  death  itself  bhall  nut  reuiaiu  : 

Tiiat  weary  deserts  we  may  tread, 
A  dreary  labyrinth  may  thread, 
Through  dark  ways  underground  be  led  ; 

Yet,  if  we  will  our  Guide  obey, 

The  dreariest  path,  tlie  darkest  way. 

Shall  issue  out  in  heavenly  day. 

And  wej  on  diveis  shores  now  cast, 
Shall  meet,  our  perilous  voj'age  past, 
All  in  our  Father's  home  at  last. 

And  ere  thou  leave  them,  say  thou  this. 
Yet  one  word  more :   They  only  miss 
The  winning  of  that  final  bliss 

"Who  will  not  count  it  true  that  Love, 
Blessing,  not  cursing,  rules  above. 
And  that  in  it  we  live  and  move. 

And  one  thing  further  make  him  know, 
That  to  believe  these  things  are  so. 
This  firm  faith  never  to  forego,  — 

Despite  of  all  which  seems  at  strife 
With  Itlessiiig,  and  with  curses  rife, — 
That  this  is  blessing,  this  is  life. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 

[1819-1861.] 

THE  NEW  SINAI. 

Lo,  here  is  God,  and  there  is  God ! 

Believe  it  not,  O  man  ! 
In  such  vain  sort  to  this  and  that 

The  ancient  heathen  ran  ; 
Though  old  Religion  shake  her  head, 

And  say,  in  bitter  grief, 
The  day  behold,  at  first  foretold. 

Of  atheist  unbelief: 
Take  better  part,  with  manly  heart, 

Thine  adult  spirit  can  ; 
Receive  it  not,  lielieve  it  not. 

Believe  it  not,  0  Man  ! 

As  men  at  dead  of  night  awaked 
With  cries,  "The  king  is  here," 

Rush  forth  and  greet  whome'er  they  meet. 
Whoe'er  sWall  lirst  a]ipear; 


I  And  still  repeat,  to  all  the  street, 

!       "'T  is  he,  —  the  king  is  here"  ; 

The  long  procession  moveth  on. 

Each  nobler  form  they  see, 
With  changeful  suit  they  still  salute. 
And  cry,  '"Tishe!  'tis  he!" 

So,  even  so,  when  men  were  young, 

And  earth  anil  heaven  was  new. 
And  His  immediate  presence  he    - 

From  human  hearts  withdrew. 
The  soul  perjdexed  and  daily  vexed 

With  sensuous  False  and  True, 
Amazed,  bereaved,  no  less  believed. 

And  fain  would  see  Him  too. 
"He    is!"    the     prophet-tongues     pro- 
claimed ; 

In  joy  and  hasty  fear, 
"He  is  !"  aloud  replied  the  crowd, 

"Is,  here,  and  here,  and  here." 

"He  is  !    They  are  !"  in  distance  seen 

On  yon  Olympus  high, 
In  those  Avernian  woods  abide. 

And  walk  this  azure  sky : 
"They  are  !     They  are  ! "  to  every  show 

Its  eyes  the  baby  turned, 
And  blazes  sacrificial,  tall. 

On  thousand  altars  burned  : 
"They   are!     They   are!"  — On   Sinai's 
top 

Far  seen  the  lightning's  shone. 
The  thunder  broke,  a  trumpet  spoke, 

And  God  said,  "I  am  One." 

God  spake  it  out,  "T,  God,  am  One" ; 

The  unheeding  ages  ran. 
And  baby  thoughts  again,  again. 

Have  (logged  the  growing  man  : 
And  as  of  old  from  Sinai's  top 

God  said  that  God  is  One, 
By  Science  strict  so  speaks  he  now 

To  tell  us,  There  is  None ! 
Earth  goes  by  chemic  forces ;  Heaven  's 

A  Mecaniipie  Celeste ! 
And  heart  and  mind  of  human  kind 

A  watch-work  as  the  rest ! 

Is  this  a  Yoice,  as  was  the  Voice 

Whose  speaking  told  abroad. 
When   thunder    pealed,    and   mountain 
reeled. 

The  ancient  truth  of  God? 
Ah,  not  the  Voice ;  'tis  but  the  cloud, 

The  outer  darkness  dense, 
AVhere  image  none,  nor  e'er  was  seen 

Similitude  of  sense. 


ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH. 


243 


'T  is  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense, 
That  wrapt  the  Mount  around ; 

AVhile  in  amaze  the  peo]>le  stays, 
To  hear  the  Coming  Sound. 

Some  cliosen  prophet-soul  the  while 

Shall  dare,  subiiuiely  meek, 
"Within  the  shroud  of  blackest  cloud 

The  Deity  to  seek  : 
Mid^theistic  systems  dark. 

And  darker  hearts'  desfiair. 
That  soul  has  heard  perchance  his  word. 

And  on  the  dusky  air, 
His  skirts,  as  passed  He  by,  to  see 

Hath  strained  on  their  behalf, 
"Who  on  the  plain,  with  dance  amain, 

Adore  the  Golden  Calf. 

'T  is  but  the  cloudy  darkness  dense ; 

Though  blank  the  tale  it  tells, 
Ko  God,  no  Truth !  yet  He,  in  sooth, 

Is  there,  —  within  it  dwells; 
Witliin  the  sceptic  darkness  deep 

He  dwells  that  none  may  see, 
Till  idol  forms  and  idol  thoughts 

Have  passed  and  ceased  to  be : 
No  God,  no  Truth  !  ah  though,  in  sooth. 

So  stand  the  doctrine's  half ; 
On  Egypt's  tiack  return  not  back, 

Koi'  own  the  Golden  Calf. 

Take  better  part,  with  manlier  heart, 

Thine  adult  spirit  can  : 
No  God,  no  Truth,  receive  it  ne'er  — 

Believe  it  ne'er — 0  Man  ! 
But  turn  not  then  to  seek  again 

What  first  the  ill  began  ; 
No  God,  it  saith  ;  ah,  wait  in  faith 

God's  self-completing  plan ; 
Eeceive  it  not,  but  leave  it  not. 

And  wait  it  out,  0  man  ! 

The  Man  that  went  the  cloud  within 

Is  gone  and  vanished  quite ; 
"  He  cometh  not,"  the  people  cries, 

"Nor  bringeth  God  to  sight"  : 
"Lo  these  thy  gods,  that  safety  give, 

Adore  and  keep  the  feast!" 
Deluding  and  deluded  cries 

The  Prophet's  brother-Priest : 
And  Israel  all  liows  down  to  fall 

Before  the  gilded  beast. 

Devout,  indeed  !  that  priestly  creed, 

0  Man,  reject  as  sin  ! 
The  clouded  hill  attend  thou  still, 

And  him  that  went  within. 


He  yet  shall  bring  some  worthy  thing 

For  waiting  souls  to  see  ; 
Some  sacred  word  that  he  hath  heard 

Their  light  and  life  shall  be ; 
Some  lofty  part,  than  which  the  heart 

Adopt  no  nobler  can. 
Thou  slialt  receive,  thou  shalt  believe. 

And  thou  shalt  do,  0  Man  ! 


FROM  THE   "BOTHIE    OF   TOBER-NA- 
VUOLICH." 

Where  does  Circumstanceend,  and  Prov- 
idence, where  begins  it  ? 

What  are  we  to  resist,  and  what  are  we 
to  be  friends  with  ? 

If  there  is  battle  't  is  battle  by  night ;  I 
stand  in  the  darkness. 

Here  in  the  midst  of  men,  Ionian  and 
Dorian  on  both  sides. 

Signal  and  password  known;  which  is 
friend,  which  is  foeman  ? 

Is  it  a  friend  ?  I  doubt,  though  he  speak 
with  the  voice  of  a  I31  other. 

0  that  the  armies  indeed  were  arrayed  ! 
0  joy  of  the  onset ! 

Sound,  thou  trumpet  of  God,  come  forth 
Great  Cause,  and  ariay  us ! 

King  and  leader  appear,  thy  soldiers  an- 
swering seek  thee. 

Would  that  the  armies  indeed  were 
arrayed.     0  where  is  the  battle  ! 

Neither  battle  I  se(>,  nor  arraying,  nor 
King  in  Israel, 

Only  infinite  jumble  and  mess  and  dis- 
location. 

Backed  by  a  solemn  appeal,  "For  God's 
sake  do  not  stir  there ! " 


THE  STREAM  OF  LIFE. 

0  STREAM  descending  to  the  sea. 
Thy  mossy  banks  between, 

The  flow'rets  blow,  the  grasses  grow. 
The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden  plots  the  children  play, 
The  fields  the  laborers  till. 

The  houses  stand  on  either  hand. 
And  thou  descendest  still. 

0  life  descending  into  d^ath, 
Our  waking  eyes  behold, 


244 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES, 


Parent  and  fiiend  th}'  lapse  attend, 
Companions  young  and  old. 

Strong  purposes  our  minds  possess, 

Our  hearts  affections  till, 
We  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn, 

And  thon  descendest  still. 

0  end  to  which  our  currents  tend. 

Inevitable  sea. 
To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know, 

What  shall  we  guess  of  thee? 

A  roar  we  hear  npon  thy  shore, 

As  we  onr  conrse  fullil ; 
Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  will  shine 

And  be  above  us  still. 


QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS. 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side. 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are   scarce,   long    leagues   apart,   de- 
scried ; 

When  fell  the  night,  npsprung  the  breeze. 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  selfsame  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 

E'en  so, — but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Biief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails- were  fdled. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  : 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed, 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  ap[)eared  ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks !     In  light,  in  darkness  too. 

Through  winds  and   tides  one  compass 
guides,  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze,  and  0  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  partingpast. 

On  youi-  wide  phun  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last ! 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought. 
One  ]uirpos(;  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 

0  bounding  breeze,  0  rushing  seas. 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there 


SAMUEL  LONGFELLOW. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  GOLDEN  SUNSET. 

The  golden  sea  its  mirror  spreads 

Beneath  the  golden  skies. 
And  but  a  narrow  strip  between      ^ 

Of  land  and  shadow  lies. 

Thecloud-likerocks,  the  rock-like  clouds, 

Dissolved  in  glory  float. 
And,  midway  of  the  radiant  flood. 

Hangs  silently  the  boat. 

The  sea  is  but  another  skj'. 

The  sky  a  sea  as  well. 
And  which  is  earth,  and  wluch  the  heav- 
ens, 

The  eye  can  scarcely  tell. 

So  when  for  us  life's  evening  hour 

Soft  passing  shall  descend. 
May  glory  born  of  earth  and  heaven. 

The  earth  and  lieavens  blend ; 

Flooded  with  peace  the  spirit  float, 

With  silent  rapture  glow. 
Till  where  earth  ends  and  heaven  begins 

The  soul  shall  scarcely  know. 


UNKNOWN. 

QUIET  FROM  GOD. 

Quiet  from  God  !    It  cometh  not  to  still 
The  vast  and  high  aspirings  of  the  soul. 
The  deep  emotions  which  the  s]iirit  fill. 
And  speed  its  pu7'pose  onward  to  the 
goal ; 
It  dims  not  youth's  bright  eye, 

Bends  not  joy's  lofty  brow. 
No  guiltless  ecstasy 

Need  in  its  presence  bow. 

It  comes  not  in  a  sullen  form,  to  ]ilaee 
Life's  greatest  good  in  an  inglorious 
rest ; 
Through  a  dull,  beaten  track  its  way  to 
trace. 
And  to  lethargic  slumberlull  the  breast ; 
Action  may  be  its  sphere. 

Mountain  paths,  boundless  fields, 
O'er  billows  its  career  : 

This  is  the  power  it  yields. 


ELIZA   SCUDDER.  —  SARAH   F.    ADAMS. 


245 


To  sojourn  in  the  world,  and  yet  apart ; 
To  dwell  with  God,  yet  still  with  fiian 
to  feel ; 
To  bear  about  forever  in  the  heart 

The  gladness  which  His   spirit   doth 
reveal ; 
Not  to  deem  evil  gone 

From  every  earthly  sceue  ; 
To  see  the  storm  come  on. 
But  feel  His  shield  between. 

It  giveth  not  a  strength  to  human  kind, 
To  leave  all  suffering  powerless  at  its 
feet. 
But  keeps  within  the  tem})le  of  the  mind 
A  golden  altar,  and  a  mercy-seat ; 
A  spiritual  ark, 

Bearing  the  peace  of  God 
Above  the  waters  dark, 
And  o'er  the  desert's  sod. 

How  beautiful  within  our  souls  to  keep 
This    treasure,  the   All-MerciCul  hath 
given ; 
To  feel,  when  we  awake,  and   when   we 
sleep. 
Its  incense  round  us,  like  a  breeze  from 
heaven  ! 
Quiet  at  heartli  and  home. 

Where  the  heart's  joys  begin; 
Quiet  where'er  we  roam. 
Quiet  around,  within. 

Who  shall  make  trouble? — not  the  evil 
minds 
Which  like  ashadow  o'er  creation  lower. 
The  spirit  peace  liath  so  attuned,  finds 
There    feelings    that    may    own    the 
Calmer's  power ; 
What  may  she  not  confer, 

E'en  where  she  must  condemn? 
They  take  not  peace  from  her. 
She  may  speak  peace  to  them ! 


ELIZA  SCUDDER. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  LOVE  OF  GOD. 

Thou  Grace  Divine,  encircling  all, 
A  soundless,  shoreless  sea  ! 

Wherein  at  last  our  souls  must  fall, 
0  Love  of  God  most  free ! 


When  over  dizzy  heights  we  go, 
One  soft  hand  blinds  our  eyes. 

The  other  leads  us,  safe  and  slow, 
0  Love  of  God  most  wise ! 

And  though  we  turn  us  from  tliy  face, 
And  wander  wide  and  long, 

Thou  hold'st  us  still  in  thine  embrace, 
0  Love  of  God  most  strong ! 


The  saddened  heart,  the  restless  soul, 
The  toil-worn  frame  aiid  mind. 

Alike  confess  thy  sweet  control, 
0  Love  of  God  most  kind ! 

But  not  alone  thy  care  we  claim, 

Our  wayward  steps  to  win ; 
We  know  thee  by  a  dearer  name, 

O  Love  of  God  within  ! 

And  filled  and  quickened  by  thy  breath. 
Our  souls  are  strong  and  free 

To  rise  o'er  sin  and  fear  and  death, 
0  Love  of  God,  to  thee  ! 


SARAH  F.  ADAMS. 

NEARER,   MY  GOD,   TO  THEE. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Though  like  the  wanderer. 
The  sun  gone  down. 

Darkness  be  over  me. 
My  rest  a  stone  ; 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  unto  Heaven ; 

All  that  thou  send'st  to  me 
In  mercy  given ; 

Angels  to  beckon  me 

Nearei',  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee ! 


246 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTUKIES. 


Then  with  my  waking  thoughts 
Bright  witii  thj'  praise, 

Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel  I  '11  raise  ; 

So  "by  my  woes  to  be 

Nearer,  my  Goil,  to  thee. 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot. 

Upwards  1  Hy, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee! 


AKNA  L.  WARING. 


MY  TIMES  AHE  IN  THY  HAND. 

Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life 

Is  portioned  out  for  me. 
And  the  changes  that  will  surely  come, 

1  do  not  fear  to  see  ; 
But  1  ask  thee  for  a  present  mind 

Intent  on  pleasing  thee. 

I  ask  thee  for  a  thoughtful  love. 
Through  constant  watching  wise, 

To  meet  tlie  glad  with  joyful  smiles, 
And  to  wipe  the  weeping  eyes  ; 

And  a  heart  at  leisure  from  itself, 
To  soothe  and  sympathize. 

I  would  not  have  the  restless  will 

Tliat  iiurries  to  and  fro. 
Seeking  for  some  great  thing  to  do, 

Or  secret  thing  to  know  ; 
I  would  lie  treated  as  a  cluld. 

And  guided  where  I  go. 

^\'herever  in  the  world  I  am, 

In  whatsoe'er  estate, 
1  liave  a  fellowsliip  with  hearts 

To  keep  and  cultivate  ; 
An<l  a  work  of  lowly  love  to  do, 

For  tlie  Lord  on  whom  I  wait. 

So  I  ask  thee  for  the  daily  strength. 

To  none  that  ask  denied. 
And  a  mind  to  blend  witli  outward  life. 

While  keeping  at  thy  side. 
Content  to  till  a  little  space, 

If  thou  be  jilorilied. 


And  if  some  things  I  do  not  ask 

In  my  cup  of  blessing  be, 
I  wouhi  have  my  spirit  filled  the  more 

With  grateful  love  to  thee  ; 
And  careful,  less  to  serve  thee  much. 

Than  to  please  thee  perfectly. 

There  are  briers  besetting  every  path. 
Which  call  for  patient  care  ; 

There  is  a  cross  in  every  lot. 

And  an  earnest  need  for  prayer  ; 

But  a  lowly  heart  that  leans  on  thee 
Is  happy  anywhere. 

In  a  service  which  thy  love  appoints. 

There  are  no  bonds  for  me  ; 
For  riiy  secret  heart  is  taught  "the  truth" 

That  makes  thy  children  "free"  ; 
And  a  life  of  self-renouncing  love 

Is  a  life  of  liberty. 


JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

CANA. 

Dear   Friend  !   whose  presence  in   the 
house. 

Whose  gracious  word  benign, 
Conld  once,  at  Cana's  wedding  feast, 

Change  water  into  wine  ; 

Come,  visit  ns  !  and  when  dull  work 

Grows  weary,  line  on  line, 
Eevive  our  souls,  and  let  us  see 

Life's  water  turned  to  wine. 

Gay  mirth  shall  deepen  into  joy, 
Earth's  hojies  grow  half  divine, 

Wlicn  Jesus  visits  us,  to  make 
Life's  water  glow  as  wine. 

The  social  talk,  the  evening  fire, 
The  homely  househould  shrine, 

Grow  bright  witli  angel  visits,  when 
The  Lord  pours  out  the  wine. 

For  when  self-seeking,  turns  to  love, 
Not  knowing  mine  nor  thine, 

The  mira(de  again  is  wrought. 
And  \\ater  turned  to  wine. 


HORATIUS  BONAR.  —  W.  ALEXANDER. 


247 


HORATIUS  BONAR. 

THE  INNER  CALM. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 
While  these  hot  breezes  blow  ; 

Be  like  the  night-dew's  cooling  balm 
Upon  earth's  fevered  brow. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 

Soft  resting  on  thy  breast  ; 
Soothe  me  with  holy  hymn  and  psalm, 

And  bid  my  spirit  rest. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm  ; 

Let  thine  outstretched  wing 
Be  like  the  shade  of  Elim's  palm 

Beside  her  desert  spring. 

Yes,   keep   me  calm,  though  loud  and 
rude 

The  sounds  my  ear  that  gi'eet, 
Calm  in  the  closet's  solitude, 

Calm  in  the  bustling  street ; 

Calm  in  the  hour  of  buoyant  health, 

Calm  in  my  hour  of  pain, 
Calm  in  my  poverty  or  wealth, 

Calm  in  my  loss  or  gain  ; 

Calm  in  the  sufferance  of  wrong, 
Like  Him  who  bore  my  shame, 

Calm    mid    the    threatening,    taunting 
throng, 
Who  hate  Thy  holy  name  ; 

Calm  when  the  great  world's  news  with 
power 

My  listening  spirit  stir  ; 
Let  not  the  tidings  of  the  hour 

E'er  find  too  fond  an  ear  ; 

Calm  as  the  ray  of  sun  or  star 
Which  storms  assail  in  vain, 

Moving  unruffled  through  earth's  war, 
The  eternal  calm  to  gain. 


THE  MASTER'S  TOUCH. 

In  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard  ; 
In   the    rough    maible    beauty    hides 
unseen  : 
To   make    the   music   and   the    beauty, 
needs 
The    master's    touch,     the    sculptor's 
chisel  keen. 


Great  Master,  touch  us  with  thy  skilful 
hand  ; 
Let  not  the  music  that  is  in  us  die  ! 
Great  Sculptor,  hew  and  palish  us  ;  nor 
let. 
Hidden  and  lost,  thy  form  within  us 
lie! 

Spare   not   the   stroke  !   do   with  us  as 
thou  wilt ! 
Let  there  be  naught  unfinished,  broken, 
marred  ; 
Complete  thy  purpose,  that  we  may  be- 
come 
Thy  perfect  image,  thou  our  God  and 
Lord  ! 


W.  ALEXANDER. 

UP  ABOVE. 

Down  below,  the  wild  November  whist- 
ling 
Through  the  beech's  dome  of  burning  red, 
And  the  Autumn  sprinkling  penitential 
Dust  and  ashes  on  the  chestnut's  head. 


Down  beloW',  a  pall  of  airy  piirple 
Darkly  hanging  fioni  the  mountain-side ; 
And  the  sunset  fiom  his  eyebrow  staring 
O'er  the  long  roll  of  the  leaden  tide. 

Up  above,  the  tree  with  leaf  unfading. 
By  the  everlasting  river's  brink  ; 
And  the  sea  of  glass,  beyond  whoseniargin 
Never  yet  the  sun  was  known  to  sink. 

Down  below,  the  white  wings  of  the  sea- 
bird 

Dashed  across  the  furrows,  dark  with 
mould. 

Flitting,  like  the  memories  of  our  child- 
hood. 

Through  the  trees,  now  waxen  pale  and 
old. 

Down  below,  imaginations  quivering 
Through  our  human  spirits  like  the  wind; 
Thoughts  that  toss,  like  leaves  about  the 

woodland  ; 
Hope,  like  sea-birds,  flashed  across  the 

mind. 


248 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Up  above,  the  host  no  man  can  number, 
In  white  robes,  a  |)alin  in  every  hand. 
Each  some  \vori<  sublime  forever  working, 
In  the  spacious  tracts  of  that  great  laud. 

Up  above,  the  thought.?  that  know  not 

anguish ; 
Tender  care,  sweet  love  for  us  below ; 
Noble  pity,  free  from  anxious  terror; 
Larger  love,  without  a  touch  of  woe. 

Down  below,  a  sad,  m3''sterious  music 
Wailing  through  the  woods  and  on  the 

shore, 
Burdened  with  a  grand  majestic  secret. 
That  keeps  sweeping  from  us  evermore. 

Up  above,  a  music  that  entwineth 
Witli  eternal  threads  of  golden  sound, 
The  great  poem  of  this  strange  e.xistence, 
All  whose  wondrous  meaning  hath  been 
found. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  OTHER  WORLD. 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud,  — 

A  world  we  do  not  see ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gejitle  breezes  fan  our  cheek  ; 

Amid  our  worldly  cares 
Its  g'ntle  voices  whisper  love. 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat, 
S  veet  heljiing  liands  are  stirred. 

And  piiititati's  the  veil  between 
With  breatliings  almost  heard. 

Tlie  silence  —  awful,  sweet,  and  calm  — 
They  liave  no  powei'  to  break  ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  thcmi 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  they  glide, 
So  near  to  jiress  they  seem,  — ■ 

They  seem  to  lull  us  to  our  rest, 
And  melt  into  our  dream. 


And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring 

T  is  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be. 

To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrap])ed  in  a  trance  of  bliss. 

And  gently  dream  in  loving  aims 
To  swoon  to  that — from  this. 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep. 
Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away, 
All  sorrow  and  all  care. 

Sweet  souls  around  us !  watch  us  still. 

Press  nearer  to  our  side. 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers. 

With  gentle  helpings  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream ; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality, 

Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 


MRS.  LEWES  (GEORGE  ELIOT). 


O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE  ! 

0  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence; 

live 
In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity. 
In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
Of  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 
In    thoughts    sublime    that   pierce   the 

night  like  stars. 
And   with   their  mild   persistence  urge 

men's  minds 
To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven  : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  a  beauteous  order,  that  con- 
trols 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of 

man. 
So  we  inhei'it  that  sweet  purity 
For   which    we    struggled,    failed,    and 

agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  de- 
spair. 
Rebellious  tlesh  that  would  not  be  sub- 
dued, 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY, 


249 


A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child, 
Poor   anxious   penitence,  is   quick    dis- 
solved ; 
Its  discords  quenched  by  meeting  har- 
monies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self. 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song. 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the 

wo  lid, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be. 
And  what  may  yet  be  better,  — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude. 
Divinely  human,  raising  worsiiip  so 
To  higher  reverence   more  mixed   with 

love,  — 
That   better  self  shall  live   till    human 

Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathei-ed  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb. 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come. 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more 

glorious 
For  ns,  who  strive  to  follow. 

May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven, — be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony. 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love. 
Begot  tlie  smiles  that  liave  no  cruelty, 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diifusion  ever  more  intense  ! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible, 
"Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

'[1819-1874.] 

THE  THREE  FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the 
west. 
Out  into  the  westasthe  sun  went  down  ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved 
him  the  best. 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them 
out  of  the  town  ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep. 
And  there 's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to 
keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 


Three  wives  sat   up   in   the   lighthouse 
tower. 
And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the 
sun  went  down. 
They    looked    at    the    squall,    and    they 
looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night  rack  came  rolling  up 
ragged  and  brown ! 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep. 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and   waters 
deep. 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went 
down. 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wring- 
ing their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back 
to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 

weep, 
And  the  sooner  it 's  over,  the  sooner  to 
sleep,  — 
And  good  by  to  the  bar  and  its 
moaning. 


THE  SAKDS   OF  DEE. 

"0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home. 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee"  ; 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi' 
foam. 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the 
land, — 
And  nfver  home  came  she. 

"  0,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair,  — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam. 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 


250 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  cruel  hungry  foam,  I  Of  the  shearers  that  I  see, 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea :  Is  e'er  a  body  kens  me, 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  I  Though  1  kent  them  a'  at  Strathairly ; 
— **i"  ^'— ■■"  And  this  tisher-wife  I  pass, 


cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee ! 


A  MYTH. 

A  FLOATING,  a  floating 
Across  the  sleeping  sea. 
All  night  I  heard  a  singing  bird 
Upon  the  topmast  tree. 

"0,  came  you  fi-om  the  isles  of  Greece, 
Or  from  the  banks  of  Seine, 
Or  off  some  tree  in  forests  free, 
"Which  fringe  the  Western  main?" 

"1  came  not  off  the  old  world, — 
Nor  yet  from  off  the  new,  — 
But  I  am  one  of  the  birds  of  God 
"Which  sing  the  whole  night  througli." 

"0  sing  and  wake  the  dawning, 
0  whistle  for  the  wind ; 
The  night  is  long,  the  current  strong, 
ily  boat  it  lags  behind." 

"  The  current  sweeps  the  old  world. 
The  current  sweeps  the  new ; 
The  wind  will  blow,  the  dawn  will  glow 
Ere  thou  h^t  sailed  them  through." 


DINAH  MULOCK  CRAIK. 

COMING  HOME. 

The  lift  is  high  and  blue. 

And  the  new  moon  glints  through 

The  bonnie  corn-stooks  o'  Strsithairly ; 
My  ship  's  in  Largo  Bay, 
And  I  ken  it  weel, — tiie  way 

Up  the  steep,  steep  brae  of  Strathairly. 

When  I  sailed  ower  the  sea, — 
A  laddie  bold  and  free, — 

The  corn  sprang  green  on  Strathairly ; 
Wlien  I  come  ba(;k  again, 
'T  is  an  aulil  man  walks  his  lane. 

Slow    and    sad     through    the    fields    o' 
Strathairly. 


Can  she  be  the  braw  lass 
That  I  kissed  at  the  back  of  Strathairly? 

0,  the  land 's  fine,  fine  ! 

I  could  buy  it  a'  for  mine. 
My  gowd  's    yellow    as    the  stocks   o' 
Strathairly ; 

But  1  fain  yon  lad  wad  be. 

That  sailed  ower  the  salt  sea. 
As  the  dawn  rose  gray  on  Strathairly. 


TOO  LATE. 

Could   ye   come  back  to  me,  Douglas, 
Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I  'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels 
do;  — 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

0  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 
My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were 

few : 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now  up  in  heaven, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  ? 

1  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you  : 
Now  all  men    beside   seem   to   me   like 
shadows,  — 
I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch  out  your  hand  to  me,  Douglas, 
Douglas, 
Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew  ; 
As  I  lay  my  heart  on  your  dead  heart, 
Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 


OUTWARD  BOUND. 

Out  upon  the  unknown  deep, 

"Where  the  unheard  oceans  sound, 
"Where  the  unseen  islan<ls  sleep,  — 
Outward  bound. 


HARRIET   WINSLOW   SEW  ALL. 


251 


Following  towards  tlie  silent  west 
O'er  the  liorizon's  curved  riiu, 

On,  to  islands  of  the  blest ; 
He  with  me  and  I  with  him, 
Outward  bound. 

Nothing  but  a  speck  we  seem 

In  the  waste  of  waters  round ; 
Floating,  floating  like  a  dream. 

Outward  bound. 
But  within  that  tiny  speck 

Two  brave  hearts  with  one  accord, 
Past  all  tunnilt,  pain,  and  wreck. 
Look  up  calm,  and  praise  the  Lord, 
Outward  bound.    ' 


UNKNOWN. 

UNTIL  DEATH. 

Make  me  no  vows   of  constanc)',  dear 
friend, 
To  love  me,  though  I  die,  tliy  whole 
life  long. 
And  love  no  other  till  thy  days  shall 
end, — 
Nay,  it  were  rash  and  wrong. 

If  thou  canst  love  another,  be  it  so ; 

1  would  not  reach  out  of  my  quiet  grave 
To  bind  thy  heart,  if  it  should  choose  to 

go;— 

Love  should  not  be  a  slave. 

My  placid  ghost,  I  trust,  will  walk  serene 
In  clearer  light  than  gilds  those  earthly 
morns, 
Above  the  jealousies  and  envies  keen 

AVhich  sow  this  life  with  thorns. 

Thou  wouldstnot  feel  my  shadowy  caress. 
If,  after  death,  my  soul  should  linger 
here ; 
Men's  hearts   crave   tangible,  close  ten- 
derness. 
Love's  presence,  warm  and  near. 

It  would  not  make  me  sleep  more  peace- 
fully 
That  thou  wert  w-asting  all  thy  life  in 
woe 
For  my  poor  sake ;  what  love  thou  hast 
for  me. 
Bestow  it  ei'e  I  go ! 


Carve  not  upon  a  stone  when  I  am  dead 
The  praises  which  remorseful  mourners 
give 
To   women's   graves,  —  a   tardy   recom- 
pense, — 
But  speak  them  while  I  live. 

Heap  not  the  heavy  marble  on  my  head 
To  shut  away  the  sunshine  and  the  dew  ; 
Let  small    blooms   grow    there,  and   let 
grasses  wave. 
And  rain-drops  filter  through. 

Thou  wilt  meet  niany  fairer  and  more  gay 
Than  I ;  but,  trust  me,  thou  canst  never 
find 
One  who  will  love  and  serve  thee  night 
and  day 
With  a  more  single  mind. 

Forget  me  when  I  die  !     The  violets 

Above  my  rest  will  blossom  just  asblue. 
Nor  miss  thy  tears;   e'en  Nature's  self 
forgets ;  — 
But  while  I  live,  be  true ! 


HARRIET  WINSLOW  SEWALL. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

WHY  THUS  LONGING? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing 
For  the  far  off,  unattained,  and  dim. 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying. 
Offers  up  its  low  perpetual  hymn  ! 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching 
All    thy   restless    yearnings  it   would 
still. 
Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preach- 
ing 
Thine   own   sphere,   though  humble, 
first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst 
throw. 
If  no  silken  chord  of  love  hath  bound 
thee 
To   some   little   world   through   weal 
and  woe  ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten, 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own, 


252 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's  ap- 
plauses, 
Not  by  works  that  win   thee   world 
renown, 
Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses. 
Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immor- 
tal crown. 

Daily  struggling,   though  unloved  and 
lonely, 
Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give  ; 
Thou  wilt  find  by  hearty  striving  only. 
And    truly   loving,    thou  canst  truly 
live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning 

When  all  nature  hails  the  Lord  of  light, 
And  his  smile,  nor  low  nor  lofty  scorn- 

Gladdens    hall    and   hovel,    vale  and 
height  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field   and 
forest. 
Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine, 
But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest. 
Thou  art  wealthier,  —  all  the  world  is 
thine. 

Yet  if   through   earth's   wide   domains 
thou  rovest. 
Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone. 
Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou 
lovest. 
And  their  beauty  and  thy  wealth  are 
gone. 


COYEXTRY  PATMORE. 

WOMAN. 

All  powers  of  the  sea  and  air, 

All  interests  of  hill  and  plain, 
I  so  can  sing,  in  seasons  fair. 

That  who  liath  felt  may  feel  again  : 
Nay,  more  ;  tlie  gracious  muses  liless 

At  timi's  my  tongue,  until  1  can 
AVith  moving  emphasis  express 

The  likeness  of  the  perfect  man  : 
Elated  oft  witli  such  free  songs, 

1  think  with  utterance  free  to  raise 


That  hymn  for  which  the  whole  world 
longs,— 

A  worthy  hymn  in  woman's  praise ; 
The  best  half  of  creation's  best, 

Its  heart  to  feel,  its  eye  to  see, 
The  crown  and  complex  of  the  rest, 

Its  aim  and  its  ei)itome. 

Yet  now  it  is  my  chosen  task 

To  sing  her  worth  as  maid  and  wife; 
And  were  such  post  to  seek,  1  'd  ask 

To  live  her  laureate  all  my  life. 
On  wings  of  love  uplifted  free. 

And  by  her  gentleness  made  great, 
I  'd  teach  how  noble  man  should  be. 

To  match  with  such  a  lovely  mate ; 
Until  (for  who  may  hope  too  much 

From  hei- who  wields  the  powers  of  love). 
Our  lifted  lives  at  last  should  touch 

That  lofty  goal  to  which  they  move; 
Until  we  find,  as  darkness  rolls 

Far  ott',  and  fieshly  mists  dissolve. 
That  nuptial  contrasts  are  the  jjoles 

On  which  the  heavenly  spheres  revolve. 


THE  CHASE. 

She  wearies  Avith  an  ill  unknown  ; 

In  sleep  she  sobs  and  seems  to  float, 
A  water-lil}',  all  alone 

Within  a  lonely  castle-moat ; 
And  as  the  full  moon,  s[)ectral,  lies 

Within  the  crescent's  gleaming  arms, 
The  present  shows  her  heedless  eyes 

A  future  dim  with  vague  alarms : 
She  sees,  and  yet  she  scarcely  sees ; 

For,  life-in-life  not 'yet  begun, 
Too  many  are  life's  mysteries 

For  thought  to  fix  t'ward  any  one. 

She  's  told  that  maidens  are  by  youths 

Extremely  honored  and  desired  ; 
Andsighs,  "If  those  sweet  tales  be  truths, 

What  bliss  to  be  so  much  admired  I" 
The  suitors  come  ;  she  sees  them  grieve ; 

Her  coldness  fills  them  with  despair: 
She  'd  pity  if  she  could  believe ; 

She  's  soiry  that  she  cannot  care. 

Who  's  this  that  meets  her  on  her  way  ? 

Comes  he  as  enemy,  or  friend; 
Or  both  ?     Her  bosom  seems  to  say 

He  cannot  pass,  and  there  an  end. 
Whom  does  he  love  ?     Does  he  confer 

His  heart  on  worth  that  answers  his  ? 


LETITIA   E.    LANDON. 


Peiliaps  he's  come  to  worship  her: 
yhe  I'ears,  she  hopes,  she  thinks  he  is. 

Advancing  stepless,  quick,  and  still. 

As  in  the  grass  a  s<'rpent  glides, 
He  fascinates  hei'  lluttering  will. 

Then  teriihes  with  dreadful  strides  : 
At  first,  there  's  nothing  to  resist : 

He  fights  with  all  the  forms  of  peace ; 
He  comes  about  her  like  a  mist, 

With  subtle,  swift,  unseen  increase ; 
And  then,  unlooked  for,  strikes  auiain 

8oine  sti'oke  that  frightens  hertodeath  ; 
And  grows  all  liainilessness  again. 

Ere  she  can  cry,  or  get  lier  breath. 
At  times  she  stops,  and  stands  at  bay; 

But  he,  in  all  more  strong  than  she, 
Sul)dues  her  with  his  pale  dismay, 

Or  more  admired  audacity. 

All  people  speak  of  him  with  praise  : 

How  wise  his  talk  ;  how  sweet  his  tone  ; 
What  manly  worship  in  his  gaze  ! 

It  nearly  makes  lier  lieart  his  own. 
With  what  an  air  he  speaks  lier  name  : 

His  manner  always  j'ecollects 
Her  sex  :  and  still  the;  woman's  claim 

Is  taught  its  scope  by  his  respects. 
Her  cliarms,  perceived  to  prosper  first 

In  his  beloved  advertencies. 
When  in  her  glass  they  are  rehearsed, 

Prove  his  most  powerful  allies. 

Ah,  whither  shall  a  maiden  flee, 

When  a  bold  youth  so  swift  jiursues, 
And  siege  of  tenderest  courtesy. 

With  hope  perseverant,  still  renews  ! 
W'hy  fly  so  fast?     Hei-  flattered  breast 

Thanksliim  who  finds  her  fair  and  good  ; 
She  loves  her  fears;  veiled  joys  aiTCst 

The  foolish  terrors  of  her  blood ; 
By  secret,  sweet  degrees,  her  heart. 

Vanquished,  takes   warmth    frorft   liis 
desire : 
She  makes  it  more,  with  bashful  art. 

And  fuels  love's  late  dreaded  lire. 

The  gallant  credit  he  accords 

To  all  the  signs  of  good  in  her, 
Eedeems  itself;  his  ])raiseful  words 

What  thej^  attribute  still  confer. 
Her  heart  is  thiice  as  rich  in  bliss. 

She  's  three  times  gentler  than  before  : 
He  gains  a  right  to  call  her  his. 

Now  she  through  him  is  so  much  more  ! 
Ah,  might  he,  when  by  doubts  aggrieved, 

Behold  his  tokens  next  her  breast, 


At  all  his  words  and  sighs  perceived 
Against  its  blithe  upheaval  pressed. 

But  still  she  flies:  should  she  be  won. 
It  must  not  be  believed  or  thought 

She  yields  :  she's  chased  to  death,  undone, 
Surprised,  and  violently  caught. 


THE  LOVER. 

He  meets,  by  heavenly  chance  express, 

His  destined  wife;  some  hidden  hand 
Unveils  to  him  that  loveliness 

Which  others  cannot  understand. 
No  songs  of  love,  no  summer  dreams 

Did  e'er  his  longing  lancy  fire 
With  vision  like  to  this ;  she  seems 

In  all  things  better  than  desire. 
His  merits  in  her  presenc-e  grow, 

To  match  the  promise  in  her  eyes. 
And  round  her  hajipy  footsteps  blow 

The  authentic  airs  of  Paradise. 

The  least  is  well,  yet  nothing'  s  light 

In  all  the  lover  does;  for  he 
Who  pitches  hope  at  such  a  height 

Will  do  all  things  with  dignity. 
She  is  so  perfect,  true,  and  pure. 

Her  virtue  all  virtue  so  endears. 
That  often,  when  he  thinks  of  her. 

Life's  meanness  fills  his  eyes  with  tears. 


LETITIA  E.  LANDON. 

THE  SHEPHERD-BOY. 

Like  some  vision  olden 

Of  far  other  time, 
When  the  age  was  golden. 

In  the  young  world's  prime 
Is  thy  soft  pipe  ringing, 

O  lonely  shepherd-boy. 
What  song  art  thou  singing, 

In  thy  youth  and  joy? 

Or  art  thou  complaining 

Of  thy  lowly  lot. 
And  thine  own  disdaining. 

Dost  ask  what  thou  hast  not  ? 
Of  the  future  dreaming, 

Weaiy  of  the  ])ast, 
For  the  present  scheming, 

All  but  what  thou  hast. 


254 


SONGS   OF   THEEE    CENTURIES. 


No,  thou  art  delighting 

In  tliy  suniiner  home, 
Where  the  Howeis  inviting 

Tempt  tlie  bee  to  luani ; 
Wlieie  the  eow.slip  bending 

With  its  golden  bells, 
Of  each  glad  hour's  ending 

With  a  sweet  chime  tells. 

All  wild  creatures  love  him 

When  lie  is  alone, 
Every  bird  above  him 

Sings  its  softest  tone, 
Thankful  to  high  Heaven, 

Humble  in  thy  joy, 
Much  to  thee  is  given, 

Lowly  shepherd-boy. 


DEATH  AND  THE  YOUTH. 

"Not  yet,  the  flowers  are  in  my  path, 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky ; 
Not  yet,  my  heart  is  full  of  hope, 

I  cannot  bear  to  die. 

"Not  yet,  I  never  knew  till  now 
'         How  precious  life  could  lie; 
My  heart  is  full  of  love,  O  Death ! 
I  cannot  come  with  thee  !" 

But  Love  and  Hope,  enchanted  twain, 
Passed  in  their  falsehood  by ; 

Death  came  again,  and  then  he  said, 
"  I  'm  ready  now  to  die !" 


AUBREY  DE  VERE. 

THE  SISTERS. 

"  I  KNOW  not  how  to  comfort  thee; 

Yet  dare  not  say,  Weep  on  I 
I  know  how  little  life  is  worth 

When  love  itself  is  gone. 

"The  mighty  with  the  weak  contend; 

The  many  with  the  few  : 
The  hard  and  heavy  hearts  ojipress 

The  tender  and  tlie  true. 

"Had  he  been  capable  of  love, 
His  love  had  clung  to  thee ; 


He  was  too  weak  a  thing  to  bear 
That  noble  energy. 

"Lift,  lift  your  forehead  from  my  lap, 

And  lay  it  on  my  breast : 
I  too  have  wept ;  but  you  I  deemed 

Still  safe  within  your  nest." 

Her  words  were  vain,  but  not  her  tears ; 

The  mourner  raised  her  eyes. 
Subdued  by  the  atoning  power 

Of  pitying  sympathies : 

Subdued  at  first,  erelong  consoled, 

At  last  she  ceased  to  moan  ; 
For  those  who  feel  another's  pain 

Will  soon  forget  their  own. 

0  ,ve  whom  broken  vows  bereave, 
Your  vows  to  heaven  restore  ; 

0  ye  for  blighted  love  who  grieve, 
Love  deeper  and  love  more  ! 

The  arrow  cannot  wound  the  air, 

Nor  thunder  rend  the  sea, 
Nor  injury  long  afflict  the  heart 

That  rests,  0  Love,  in  thee  ! 

The  winds  may  blow,  the  waves  may  swell; 

But  soon  those  tumults  cease, 
And  the  pure  element  subsides 

Into  its  native  peace. 


ALICE  CAREY.       • 

[U.  S.  A.] 

KRUMLEY. 

0  BLFSHINO  flowers  of  Krumley ! 
'T  is  she  who  makes  you  sweet. 

1  envy  every  silver  wave 
That  laughs  about  her  feet. 

How  dare  the  waves,  how  dare  the  flowers, 
Rise  up  and  kiss  her  feet  ? 

Ye  wanton  woods  of  Krumley ! 

Ye  clas])  her  with  your  boughs, 
And  stoop  to  kiss  her  all  the  way 

Beside  her  homeward  cows. 
I  hate  ye,  woods  of  Krundey, 

I  'm  jealous  of  your  boughs ! 


ALICE  CAKEY. 


255 


I  tell  ye,  banks  of  Krnmley, 

'T  is  not  your  sunny  days 
That  set  your  meadows  up  and  down 

With  blossoms  all  ablaze. 
The  Howers  that  love  her  crowd  to  bloom 

Along  her  trodden  ways. 

0  dim  and  dewy  Krumle}^ 

'T  is  not  your  birds  at  all 
That  make  the  air  one  warble 

From  rainy  spring  to  tall. 
They  only  mock  the  sweeter  songs 

Tliat  from  her  sweet  lips  fall. 

0  bold,  bold  winds  of  Krumley, 
Do  ye  mean  my  heart  to  break, 

So  light  ye  lift  her  yellow  hair, 
So  lightly  kiss  her  cheek? 

0  flower  and  bird,  0  wave  and  wind, 
Ye  mean  my  heart  to  break ! 


THE  SURE  WITNESS. 

The  solemn  wood  had  spread 
Shadows  around  my  head,  — 
"Curtains  they  are,"  I  said, 
"Hung  dim  and  still  about  the  house  of 

prayer" ; 
Softly  among  the  limbs, 
Turning  the  ieaves  of  hymns, 
I  hear  the  winds,  and  ask  if  God  were 

there. 
No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening 

stood. 
Sweet  peace  made  holy  hushes  through 

the  wood. 

AVith  ruddy,  open  hand, 

I  saw  the  wild  rose  stand 

Beside  the  green  gate  of  the  summer  hills, 

And  pulling  at  her  dress, 

I  cried,  "Sweet  hermitess. 

Hast  thou  beheld  Him  who  the  dew  dis- 
tils?" 

No  voice  replied,  but  while  I  listening 
bent. 

Her  gracious  beauty  made  my  heart  con- 
tent. 

The  moon  in  splendor  shone, — 
"She  walketh  Heaven  alone, 
And  seeth  all  things,"  to  myself  I  mused; 
"Hast  thou  beheld  Him,  then, 
Who  hides  himself  from  men 
In  that  gicat  power  through  nature  in- 
terfused?" 


No  speech  made  answer,  and  no  sign  ap- 
peared, 

But  in  the  silence  I  was  soothed  and 
cheered. 

Waking  one  time,  strange  awe 

Thrilling  my  soul,  I  saw 

A  kingly  s])lendor  round  al)out  the  night ; 

Such  cunning  work  tlie  hand 

Of  spinner  never  planned,- — 

The  finest  wool  may  not  be  washed  so 

white. 
"Hast  thou  come  out  of  Heaven  ?" 
I  asked  ;  and  lo  ! 
The  snow  was  all  the  answer  of  the  snow. 

Then  my  heart  said.  Give  o'er; 

Question  no  more,  no  more  ! 

The  wind,  the  snow-storm,  the  wild  her- 
mit flower. 

The  illuminated  air. 

The  pleasure  after  ]irayer. 

Proclaim  the  unoriginated  Power! 

The  mystery  that  hides  him  here  and 
there. 

Bears  the  sure  witness  he  is  everywhere. 


HER  LAST  POEM. 

Eakth  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills. 

Recedes  and  fades  away; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  heavenly  hills ; 

Ye  gates  of  death,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  full  of  whispered  song, — 
My  blindness  is  my  sight; 

The  shadows  that  I  feared  so  long 
Are  full  of  life  and  light. 

My  pulses  faint  and  fainter  beat, 
My  faith  takes  wider  bounds ; 

I  feel  grow  firm  beneath  my  feet 
The  green,  immortal  grounds. 

The  faith  to  me  a  courage  gives. 

Low  as  the  grave  to  go,  — 
I  know  that  mv  Redeemer  lives, — 

That  I  shairiive  I  know. 

The  palace  walls  I  almost  see 
Where  dwells  my  Lord  and  King. 

0  grave,  where  is  thy  victoiy? 
0  death,  where  is  thy  sting? 


256 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


PHEBE  CAREY. 

[u.  s.  a]    . 

FIELD  PREACHING. 

I  HAVE  been  out  to-day  in  field  and  wood, 
Listening  to  praises  sweet  and  con  nsel  good 
Such  as  a  little  child  had  understood, 

That,  in  its  tender  youtli, 
Discerns  the  simple  eloquence  of  truth. 

The  modest  blossoms,  crowding  round 

my  way, 
Thongh  they  had  nothing  great  or  grand 

to  say. 
Gave  out  their  fragrance  to  the  wind  all 

day ; 
Because  His  loving  breath, 
"With  soft  persistence,  won  them  back 

from  death. 

And  the  right  royal  lily,  putting  on 
Her  robes,  more  rich  than  those  of  Solo- 
mon, 
Opened  her  gorgeous  missal  in  the  sun. 
And  thanked  Him,  soft  and  low. 
Whose  gracious,  liberal  hand  had  clothftl 
her  so. 

When  wearied,   on  the  meadow-grass  I 

sank  ; 
So  narrow  was  the  rill  from  which  I  drank. 
An  infant  might  have  stepped  from  bank 

to  bank ; 
And  tlie  tall  rushes  near 
Lapping  together,  hid  its  waters  clear. 

Yet  to  the  ocean  joyously  it  went ; 
And  rippling  in  the  fulness  of  content. 
Watered  the  pretty  flowers  that  o'er  it 

leant ; 
For  all  the  banks  were  spread 
With  delicate  flowers  that  on  its  bounty 

fed. 

The  stately  maize,  a  fair  and  goodly  sight. 
With  serried  speai-points  bristling  sharp 

and  bright. 
Shook  out  his  yellow  tresses,  for  delight, 

To  all  their  tawny  length, 
Like    Samson,    glorying    in    his    lusty 

strength. 

And  every  little  bii'd  upon  the  tree, 
Kuliling  his  plumage  bright,  for  ecstasy, 


Sang  in  the  wild  insanitj'  of  glee ; 

And  seemed,  in  the  same  lays, 
Calling  his  mate  and  uttering  songs  of 
praise. 

Thegolden  grasshopper  did  chirpand  sing; 
The  plain  bee,  busy  with  her  housekeep- 
ing, 
Kept  humming  cheerfully  upon  the  wing. 

As  if  she  understood 
That,  with  contentment,  labor  was  a  good. 

I  saw  each  creature,  in  his  own  best  place, 
To  the  Creator  lift  a  smiling  face. 
Praising  continually  his  wondrous  grace ; 

As  if  the  best  of  all 
Life's  countless  blessings  was  to  live  at  all ! 

So  with  a  book  of  sermons,  plain  and  true, 
Hid  in  my  heart,  where   I   might  turn 

them  through, 
I  went  home  softly,  through  the  falling 

dew. 
Still  listening,  ra]it  and  calm, 
To  Xature  giving  out  her  evening  psalm. 

While,  far  along  the  west,  mine  eyes  dis- 
cerned. 

Where,  lit  by  God,  the  fires  of  sunset 
burned. 

The  tree-tops,  unconsumed,  to  flame  were 
turned  ; 
And  I,  in  that  great  hush. 

Talked  with  His  angels  in  each  burning 
bush ! 


NEARER  HOME. 

One  sweetly  welcome  thought. 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 

I  'm  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  've  ever  been  before; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house 

Where  tlie  many  mansions  be  ; 

Nearer  the  Great  White  Throne, 
Nearer  the  Jasper  Sea ; 

Nearer  that  bound  of  life. 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down, — 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross. 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

But  lying  dimly  between. 

Winding  down  through  the  night. 
Lies  the  dark  and  uncertain  stream 

That  leads  us  at  length  to  the  light. 


SYDNEY  DOBELL. 


257 


Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dark  abysm, 
Closer  Death  to  my  li[is 

Presses  the  awful  chrism ; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ! 

Strengthen  my  feeble  faith  ! 
Let  me  feel  as  1  shall,  when  I  stand 

On  the  shores  of  the  river  of  death : 

Feel  as  I  would,  were  my  feet 

Even  now  slipping  over  the  brink, - 

For  it  may  be  1  am  nearer  home, 
Nearer  now,  than  I  think ! 


PEACE. 

0  Land,  of  every  land  the  best,  — 
0  Land,  whose  glory  shall  increase ; 

Now  in  your  whitest  raiment  drest 
For  the  great  festival  of  peace  : 

Take  from  your  flag  its  fold  of  gloom, 
And  let  it  float  undimmed  above. 

Till  over  all  our  vales  shall  bloom 
The  sacred  colors  that  we  love. 


On  mountain  high,  in  valley  low, 
Set  Freedom's  living  fires  to  burn ; 

Until  the  midnight  sky  shall  show 
A  redder  glory  than  the  morn. 

Welcome,  with  shouts  of  joy  and  pride. 
Your   veterans    fiom    the   war-path's 
track ; 

You  gave  your  boys,  untrained,  untried ; 
You  bring  them  men  and  heroes  back  ! 


And  shed  no  tear,  though  think  you  must 
"With  sorrow  of  the  martyred  band ; 

Not  even  for  him  whose  hallowed  dust 
Has  made  our  prairies  holy  land. 

Though  by  the  places  where  they  fell, 
The  places  that  are  sacred  ground, 

Death,  like  a  sullen  sentinel, 
Paces  his  everlasting  round. 

Yet  when  they  set  their  country  free. 
And  gave  her  traitors  fitting  doom. 

They  left  their  last  great  enemy, 
Baflled,  beside  an  empty  tomb. 
17 


Not  there,  but  risen,  redeemed,  they  go 
Where  all  the  paths  are  sweet  with 
flow'ers ; 

They  fought  to  give  us  peace,  and  lo ! 
They  gained  a  better  jjeace  than  ours, 


SYDNEY  DOBELL. 

KEITH  OF  RAVELSTON. 

0  HAPPY,  hajipy  maid, 

1  n  the  year  of  war  and  death 
She  wears  no  sorrow  ! 

By  her  face  .so  young  and  fair, 

By  the  ha])py  wi-eath 

That  rules  her  happy  hair, 

She  might  be  a  bride  to-morrow  ! 

She  sits  and  sings  within  her  moonlit 
bower. 

Her  moonlit  bower  in  rosy  June, 

Yet  ah,  her  bridal  breath. 

Like  fragrance  from  some  sweet  night- 
blowing  flower. 

Moves  from  her  moving  lips  in  many  a 
mournful  tune ! 

She  sings  no  song  of  love's  despair, 

She  sings  no  lover  lowly  laid, 

No  fond  peculiar  giief 

Has  ever  touched  or  bud  or  leaf 

Of  her  unblighted  spring. 

She  sings  because  she  needs  must  sing ; 

She  sings  the  sorrow  of  the  air 

Whereof  her  voice  is  made. 

That  night  in  Britain  howsoe'er 

On  any  chords  the  fingers  strayed 

They  gave  the  notes  of  care. 

A  dim  sad  legend  old 

Long  since  in  some  pale  shade 

Of  some  far  twilight  told. 

She  knows  not  when  or  where. 

She  sings,  with  trembling  hand  on  trem- 
bling lute-strings  laid  :  — 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 
That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine, 

"O  Keith  of  Eavel.ston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  !  " 

Eavelston,  Eavelston, 

The  merry  path  that  leads 
Down  the  golden  morning  hill. 

And  through  the  silver  meeds  ; 

Eavelston,  Eavelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree, 


258 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 
The  song  that  sang  she  ! 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 

She  sat  benentli  the  tliorn 
When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 

Rode  through  the  Monday  nioin  ; 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  hawk-bells  ring. 

His  belted  jewels  shine  ! 
0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came, 
Conies  evening  down  the  glade,     * 

And  still  tliere  sits  a  moonshine;  ghost 
Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and  fair. 
She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine ; 

0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

1  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 
The  stile  is  lone  and  cold, 

Tlie  burnie  that  goes  babbling  by 
Says  naught  that  can  be  told. 

Yet,  stranger !  here,  from  year  to  year. 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine ; 

0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Step  out  three  steps,  where  Andrew  stood : 
Why  blanch  thy  cheeks  for  fear? 

The  ancient  stile  is  not  alone, 
'T  is  not  the  burn  I  hear ! 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine ; 

0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 


TnOMAS  BURBIDGE. 


EVENTIDE. 

Comes  something  down  with  eventide. 
Beside  the  sunset's  golden  bars, 

B^'side  the  floating  scents,  beside 
The  twinkling  shadows  of  the  stars. 

Upon  the  river's  rippling  face, 
Flash  after  flash  the  white 


Broke  up  in  many  a  shallow  place; 
The  rest  was  soft  and  bright. 

By  chance  my  eye  fell  on  the  stream ; 

How  many  a  marvellous  power 
Sleeps    in    us,  —  sleeps,    and    dotli    not 
dream ! 

This  knew  I  in  that  hour. 

For  then  my  heart,  so  full  of  strife, 

No  more  was  in  me  stirred; 
My  life  was  in  the  river's  life. 

And  I  nor  saw  nor  heard. 

I  and  the  river,  we  were  one  : 
The  sliade  beneath  the  bank, 

I  felt  it  cool ;  the  setting  sun 
Into  my  spirit  sank. 

A  rushing  thing  in  power  serene 

I  was ;  the  mj-stery 
I  felt  of  having  ever  been 

And  being  still  to  be. 

Was  it  a  moment  or  an  honr  ? 

I  knew  not ;  but  I  mourned 
Wlien,  from  that  realm  of  awful  power 

I  to  these  fields  returned. 


ROSE  TERRY  COOKE. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  ICONOCLAST. 

A  THorsAXD  5^ears  shall  come  and  go, 
A  thousand  years  of  night  and  day. 

And   man,  through   all   their   changing 
show. 
His  tragic  drama  still  shall  play. 


Ruled  by  some  fond  ideal's  power, 
Cheated  by  passion  or  despair. 

Still  shall  he  waste  life's  trembling  hour, 
In  worship  vain,  and  useless  prayer. 

Ah !  where  are  they  who  rose  in  might. 
Who  fired  the  temple  and  the  shrine, 

And  hurled,  through  earth'schaotic  night, 
The  helpless  gods  it  deemed  divine? 

Cease,  longing  soul,  thy  vain  desire  ! 

What  idol,  in  its  stainless  prime. 
But  falls,  untouched  of  axe  or  fire, 

Before  the  steady  eyes  of  Time  ? 


ANNE   C.    (LYNCH)   BOTTA. 


259 


He  looks,  and  lo  !  our  altars  fall, 
The  shrine  reveals  its  gilded  elay. 

With  deeent  hands  we  spread  the  pall, 
And,  cold  with  wisdom,  glide  away. 

0,  where  were  courage,  faitli,  and  truth, 
If  man  went  wandering  all  his  day 

In  golden  clouds  of  love  and  youth, 
Nor  knew  that  both  his  steps  betray  ? 

Come,  Time,  while  here  we  sit  and  wait. 
Be  faithful,  spoiler,  to  thy  trust ! 

No  death  can  further  desolate 

The  soul  that  knows  its  god  was  dust. 


"IT  IS  MORE  BLESSED." 

Give!  as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of 

heaven ; 
Give !  as  the  waves  when  their  channel 

is  riven ; 
Give !  as  the  free  air  and  sunshine  are 

given ; 
Lavishly,  utterly,  carelessly  give. 
Not  the  waste  drops  of  thy  cup  overflow- 
ing, 
Not  the  faint  sparks  of  thy  hearth  ever 

glowing. 
Not  a  pale  bud   from   the   June   rose's 

blowing ; 
Give  as  He  gave  thee,  who  gave  thee 

to  live. 

Pour  out  thy  love  like  the  rush  of  a  river 
Wasting  its  waters,  for  ever  and  ever. 
Through  the  burnt   sands   that   reward 

not  the  giver; 
Silent  or  songful,  thou  nearest  the  sea. 
Scatter  thy  life  as  the  Summer  shower's 

pouring ! 
What  if  no  bird  through  the  pearl-rain 

is  soaring? 
What  if  no  blossom  looks  upward  adoring  ? 
Look  to  the  life  that  was  lavished  for 

thee! 

Give,  though  thy  heart  may  be  wasted 

and  weary. 
Laid  on  an  altar  all  ashen  and  dreary; 
Though  from  its  pulses  a  faint  miserere 

Beats  to  thy  soul  the  sad  presnge  of  fate. 
Bind  it  with  cords  of  unshrinking  devo- 
tion ; 
Smile  at  the  song  of  its  restless  emotion  ; 
'T  is  the  stern  hymn  of  eternity's  ocean  ; 

Hear !  and  in  silence  thy  future  await. 


So  the  wild  wind  strews   its   perfumed 

caresses, 
Evil  and  thankless  the  desert  it  blesses, 
Bitter  the  wave  thatitssoftpinion  presses. 

Never  it  ceaseth  to  whisper  and  sing. 
What  if  the  hard  heart  give  thorns  for 

thy  roses? 
What  if  on  rocks  thy  tired  bosom  reposes  ? 
Sweetest  ismusic  with  nunor-keyed  closes. 

Fairest  the  vines  that  on  ruin  will  cling. 

Almost  the  day  of  thy  giving  is  over ; 
Ere  from  the  grass  dies  the  bee-haunted 

clover, 
Thorr  wilt  have  vanished  from  friend  and 

from  lover. 
Wliat  shall  thy  longing  avail  in  the 

grave  ? 
Give  as  the  heart  gives  whose  fetters  are 

breaking, 
Life,  love,  and  hope,  all  thy  dreams  and 

thy  waking. 
Soon,  heaven's  river  thy  soul-fever  slak- 

inf^ 
Thou  shalt  know  God  and  the  gift  that 

he  gave. 


ANNE  C.  (LYNCH)  BOTTA. 

[t.  S.  A.] 

LOVE. 

Go  forth  in  life,  0  friend!  not  seeking 
love, 
A  mendicant  that  with  imjiloiing  eye 
And   outstretched   hand   asks  of  the 
passers-by 
The  almshis  strong  necessities  may  move  : 
For  such  poor  love,  to  pity  near  allied, 
Thy  generous  spirit  ma}'  not  stoop  and 
wait, 
A  suppliant  whose  prayer  may  be  denied 
Likeaspurned  beggar'satapalace-gate ; 
But  thy  heart's  atfluence  lavish  uncon- 
trolled, — 
The  largess  of  thy  love  give  full  and 
free. 
As  monarchs  in  their   progress   scatter 
gold  ; 
And  be  thy  heart  like  the  exhaustless 
sea, 
That  must  its  wealth  of  cloud  and  dew 

bestow. 
Though  tributary  streams  or  ebb  or  flow. 


260 


SONGS    OF   THEEE   CENTURIES. 


LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

[U.    S.    A.,    I79I-  1865.] 

INDIAN  NAMES. 

Yk  say  they  all  have  passed  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave ; 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanished 

From  oH'  the  crested  wave  ; 
That  mid  the  forests  where  they  roamed 

There  rings  no  hunter's  shmit; 
But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'T  is  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  ocean's  surge  is  curled, 
Wlieie  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

Tlie  echo  of  the  world. 
Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  West, 
And  Ra]>pahaunock  sweetly  sleeps, 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  sa}'  their  cone-like  cabins, 

That  clustered  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  Hed  away  like  withered  leaves 

Before  tlie  autumn  gale  ; 
But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 

Their  baptism  on  your  shore. 
Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 

Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Upon  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  his  young  renown  ;, 
Connecticut  hath  wreatlied  it 

Where  her  (piiet  foliage  waves ; 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathed  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachusett  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Witliiii  his  rocky  heai't, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Througliout  liis  lofty  chart ; 
^lonadnock  on  his  forehead  lioar 

Dotli  .seal  the  .sacred  tiust ; 
Your  mountains  build  tlicir  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 

Ye  call  these  red-browed  brethren 

Tlie  in.sects  of  an  hour, 
Crushed  like  the  noteless  worm  amid 

The  regions  of  their  power; 
Ye  drive  them  from  their  fathers'  lands, 

Ye  break  of  faitli  the  seal, 


But  can  ye  from  the  court  of  Heaven 

Exclude  their  last  appeal  ? 

Ye  see  their  unresisting  tribes. 

With  toilsome  step  and  slow, 
On  through  the  trackless  desert  pass, 

A  caravan  of  woe ; 
Think  ye  tlie  Eternal  Ear  is  deaf? 

His  sleepless  vision  dim? 
Think  ye  the  soul's  blvod  niajr  not  cry 

From  that  I'ar  land  to  him  i 


WILLIAM  H.  FURNESS. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

ETERNAL   LIGHT. 

Slowly,  by  God's  hand  unfurled, 
Down  around  the  weary  world. 
Falls  the  darkness ;  O,  how  still 
Is  the  working  of  his  will ! 

Mighty  Spirit,  ever  nigh. 
Work  in  me  as  silently ; 
Veil  the  day's  distracting  sights. 
Show  me  heaven's  eternal  lights. 

Living  stars  to  view  be  brought 
Hi  the  boundless  realms  of  tliought; 
High  and  infinite  desires, 
Flaming  like  those  upper  fires. 

Holy  Truth,  Eternal  Eight, 
Let  them  break  ujion  my  sight; 
Let  them  shine  serene  and  .still. 
And  with  light  my  being  fill. 


JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 


[U.    S.    A.] 


WORDSWORTH. 

The  grass  liung  wet  on  Eydal  banks. 
The  golden  day  with  pearls  adorning, 

Wlien  side  by  side  with  hiiu  we  walked 
To  meet  midway  the  summer  morning. 

Tli(>  west-Avind  took  a  softer  breath. 
The  sun  himself  seemed  brighter  shin- 


HENRY    HOWAKD    BROWN  ELL. 


261 


As    through    the    porch    the    minstrel 
stepped, — 
His  eye  sweet  Nature's  look  enshrining. 

He  passed  along  the  dewy  sward, 

The  bluebird  sang  aloft  "good  mor- 
row ! " 
He  plucked  a  bud,  the  flower  awoke. 
And  smiled  without  one  pang  of  sor- 
row. 


He  spoke  of  all  that  graced  the  scene. 
In  tones  that  fell  like  music  round  irs; 

We  felt  the  cliarm  descend,  nor  strove 
To  break  tlie  rapturous  spell  that  bound 
us. 

We  listened  with  mysterious  awe. 

Strange   feelings    mingling   with   our 
])leasure ; 
We  heard  that  day  prophetic  words. 
High  tlioughts  the  heart  must  always 
treasure. 

Great  Nature's  Priest !  thy  calm  career 
With   that  sweet  moin  on  earth  has 
ended : 
But  who  shall  say  thy  mission  died 
When,  winged   for   Heaven,  thy  soul 
ascended ! 


HENRY  HOWARD  BROWNELL. 

[U.  S.  A.,   1820- 1872.] 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DANE. 

Blue  gulf  all  around  us. 

Blue  sky  overhead, — 
Mu'-ter  all  on  the  quarter. 

We  must  bury  the  dead ! 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor, 

Kugged  of  front  and  form  ; 
A  common  son  of  the  forecastle, 

Grizzled  with  sun  and  storm. 

His  name  and  the  strand  he  hailed  from 
We  know,  —  and  there  'snotbingmore  ! 

But  perhaps  his  mother  is  waiting 
In  the  lonely  island  of  Fohr. 


Still,  as  he  lay  there  dying. 

Reason  drifting  awreek, 
"'Tis  my  watch,"  he  would  mutter, 

"I  must  go  upon  deck  !" 

Ay,  on  deck, — by  the  foremast!  — 
But  watch  and  lookout  are  done; 

The  Union-Jack  laid  o'er  him. 
How  (piiet  he  lies  in  tlie  sun ! 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine, 

Staj^  the  hurrying  shaft ! 
Let  the  roll  of  the  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft,  — 
Gather  around  the  grating. 

Carry  your  messmate  aft ! 

Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  page  of  prayer ! 

Let  everj'  foot  be  quiet. 
Every  head  be  bare, — 

The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 
A  hundred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  service 
(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks). 

The  grand  old  words  of  burial. 

And  the  trust  a  true  lieart  seeks, — 

"We  therefore  commit  his  body 
To  the  deep," — and,  as  he  speaks, 

Launched  from  the  weather-railing, 
Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark. 

The  ghastly,  shotted  hammock 
Plunges,  away  from  the  shark, 

Down,  a  thousand  fathoms, 
Down  into  the  dark  ! 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 
The  stormy  Gulf  shall  roll 

High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin,  — 
But,  silence  to  doubt  and  dole ! 

There's  a  quiet  haibor  somewhere 
For  the  poor  a-weary  soul. 

Free  the  fettered  engine, 

Speed  the  tireless  shaft ! 
Loose  to'gallant  and  to])sail, 

The  breeze  is  fair  abaft ! 

Blue  sea  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  biight  o'erhoad,  — 

Every  man  to  his  duty  ! 
We  have  buried  our  dead. 


262 


SONGS    OF   THEEE   CENTUKIES. 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  MOUNTAINS. 
(From  "The  Masque  of  the  Gods.") 

Howk'er  the  wheels  of  Time  go  round, 

We  cannot  wholly  be  discrowned. 

We  hind,  in  form,  and  hue,  and  height, 

The  Finite  to  the  Infinite, 

And,  lifted  on  our  shoulders  bare, 

The  races  breathe  an  ampler  air. 

Thearms  that  clasped,  thelipsthatkissed. 

Have  vanished  from  the  morning  mist ; 

The  dainty  shapes  that  Hashed  and  passed 

In  sj)ray  the  plunging  torrent  cast. 

Or  danced    through   woven   gleam   and 

shade, 
The  vapors  and  the  sunbeams  braid. 
Grow  thin  and  pale  :  each  holy  haunt 
Of  gods  or  spirits  ministiant 
Hath  something  lost  of  ancient  awe ; 
Yet  from  the  stoojiing  heavens  we  draw 
A  beauty,  mystery,  and  might. 
Time  cannot  change  nor  worship  slight. 
The  gold  of  dawn  and  sunset  sheds 
Unearthly  glory  on  our  heads ; 
The  secret  of  the  skies  we  keep ; 
And  whispers,  round  each  lonely  steep, 
Allure  and  promise,  yet  withhold. 
What  bard  and  prophet  never  told. 
While  Man's  slow  ages  come  and  go, 
Our  dateless  chronicles  of  snow 
Their  changeless  old  inscription  show, 
And  men  therein  forever  see 
The  unread  speech  of  D(;ity. 


AN  ORIENTAL  IDYL. 

A  SILVER  javelin  which  the  hills 
Have  hurled  upon  the  jdain  below, 

The  lieetest  of  the  Pharpar's  rills. 
Beneath  me  shoots  in  flasliing  How. 

I  hear  the  never-(;nding  laugh 

Of  jostling  waves  that  come  and  go. 

And  suck  the  bul)l)ling  ]>ipe,  and  quatf 
The  sherbet  cooled  in  mountain  snow. 

The  links  of  sunshine  gleam  like  stars 
Ueiieath  the  canopy  of  shade  ; 

And  in  the  distant,  dim  bazaars, 
1  scarcely  hear  the  luini  of  trade. 


No  evil  fear,  no  dream  forlorn. 

Darkens  my  heaven  of  perfect  blue ; 

My  blood  is  tempered  to  the  morn,  — 
My  very  heart  is  stee[)ed  in  dew. 

What  Evil  is  I  cannot  tell; 

But  half  I  guess  what  Joy  may  be ; 
And,  as  a  pearl  within  its  shell, 

The  happy  spirit  sleeps  in  rae. 

I  feel  no  more  the  pulse's  strife,  — 
The  tides  of  Passion's  ruddy  sea,  — 

But  live  the  sweet,  unconscious  life 
That  breathes  fromyonderjasmine-tree. 

Upon  the  glittering  pageantries 
Of  gay  Damascus  streets  I  look 

As  idly  as  a  babe  that  sees 

The  painted  pictures  of  a  book. 

Forgotten  now  are  name  and  race; 

The  Past  is  blotted  fiom  my  brain  ; 
For  Memory  sleeps,  and  will  not  trace 

The  weary  pages  o'er  again. 

I  only  know  the  morning  shines. 
And  sweet  the  dewy  morning  air. 

But  does  it  play  with  tendrilled  vines? 
Or  does  it  lightly  lift  my  hair? 

Deep-sunken  in  the  charmed  repose, 
This  ignorance  is  bliss  extreme  ; 

An<l  whether  1  be  Man,  or  Hose, 

0,  pluck  me  not  from  out  my  dream  ! 


THE  VOYAGERS. 

No  longer  spread  the  sail ! 

No  longer  strain  the  oar! 
For  never  yet  has  blown  the  gale 

Will  bring  us  nearer  shore. 

The  swaying  keel  slides  on. 
The  helm  obeys  the  hand  ; 

Fast  we  have  sailed  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
Yet  never  reach  the  land. 

Each  morn  we  see  its  peaks, 
Made  beautiful  with  snow ; 

Each  eve  its  vales  and  winding  creeks, 
That  sleep  in  mist  below. 

At  noon  Ave  mark  the  gleam 

Of  temples  tall  and  fair; 
At  midnight  watch  its  bonlires  stream 

In  the  auroral  air. 


SAKA   J.    LIPPINCOTT   (GRACE   GREENWOOD). 


263 


And  still  the  keel  is  swift, 
And  still  the  wind  is  iree, 

And  still  as  far  its  mountains  lift 
Beyond  the  enchanted  sea. 

Yet  vain  is  all  return, 

Though  false  the  goal  before  ; 
The  gale  is  ever  dead  astern, 

The  current  sets  to  shore. 

0  shipmates,  leave  the  ropes  ; 

And  what  though  no  one  steers, 
We  sail  no  faster  lor  our  hopes, 

No  slower  for  our  fears. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP. 

"Give  us  a  song!"  the  soldiers  cried. 
The  outer  trenches  guarding, 

When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff. 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

Tliere  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said  : 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow; 

Sing  while  we  maj',  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side. 

Below  the  smoking  cannon  : 
Brave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory  : 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "Annie  Laurie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song. 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong,  — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 

Sonietliing  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 

The  bloody  sunset's  embers. 
While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 

How  English  love  remembers. 


And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 

Rained  on  the  Russian  ([uarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  aie  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory  ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  Idni 
Who  sang  of  "Annie  Laurie." 

Sleep,  soldiers !  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing ; 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest, — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


SAPvl  J.  LIPPINCOTT  (GRACE 
GPiEENWOOD). 

[U.    S     A.] 

THE  POET   OF  TO-DAY. 

More  than  the  soul  of  ancient  song  is 
given 
To    thee,    0    poet    of   to-day  !  —  thy 
dower 
Comes,   from  a   higher  than  Olympian 
heaven. 
In  holier  beauty  and  in  larger  power. 

To  thee  Humanit}^  her  woes  revealing. 
Would    all    her    griefs    and    ancient 
wrongs  rehearse ; 
Would  mnke  thy  song  the  voice  of  her 
appealing. 
And  sob  her  mighty  sorrows  througli 
thy  verse. 

While  in  her  season  of  great  darkness 
sharing, 
Hail  thou  the  coming  of  each  promise- 
star 
Which  climbs  the  midnight  of  her  long 
despairing. 
And  watch  for  morning  o'er  the  hills 
afar. 

Wherever  Truth  her  holy  warfare  w-ages. 
Or  Freedom  pines,  there  let  thy  voice 
be  heard ; 
Sound  like  a  prophet-warning  down  the 
ages 
The  human  utterance  of  God's  living 
word. 


264 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


But  briiif,'  not  thou  the  battle's  stormy 
chorus, 
The  tramp  of  armies,  and  the  roar  of 
liglit, 
Not  war's  hot  smoke  to  taint  the  sweet 
morn  o'er  us, 
Nor  bhize  of  piHage,  reddening  ujj  the 
night. 

O,  let  thy  lays  prolong  that  angel-sing- 
ing, 
Girdling  with  music  the  Eedeemer's 
star. 
And  breathe  God's  peace,  to  earth  'glad 
tidings '  bringing 
From  the  near  heavens,  of  old  so  dim 
and  far  ! 


ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

[1830-1867.] 

LADY  BARBARA. 

Earl  Gawain  wooed  the  Lady  Barbara, 
High-thoughted  Barbara,  so  white  and 

cold ! 
'Mong  broad-branched   beeches   in   the 

summer  shaw, 


He  who,  exulting  on  the  trumpet's  breath, 
Came   charging   like  a   star  across   the 
lists  of  death. 

Trembled,   and  passed  before  her  high 

rebuke : 
And  then  she   sat,   her  hands   clasped 

round  her  knee  : 
Like  one  far-thoughted  was   the  lady's 

look. 
For  in  a  morning  cold  as  misery 
She  saw  a  lone  sliip  sailing  on  the  sea ; 
Before  the   north  't  was  driven   like   a 

cloud. 
High  on  the  poop  a  man  sat  mournfully  : 
The  wind   was  whistling  through  mast 


and  shroud. 
3  the  whistli 
sing  aloud :  — 


And  to  the  whistling  wind  thus  did  he 


"  Didst  look  last  night  upon  my  native 

vales, 
Thou  Sun  !  that  from  the  drenching  sea 

hast  clomb  ? 
Ye  demon  winds !  that  glut  my  gaping 

sails. 
Upon  the  salt  sea  must  I  ever  roam. 
Wander  forever  on  the  barren  foam  ? 
0,  happy  are  ye,  resting  mariners ! 
0  Death,  that  thou  wouldst  come  and 

and  take  me  home  ! 


In  soft  green  light  his  passion  he  has    -A-  hand  unseen  this  vessel  onward  steers, 


told. 

When  rain-beat  winds  did  shriek  across 
the  wold. 

The  Earl  to  take  her  fair  reluctant  ear 

Framed  passion-trembled  ditties  mani- 
fold ; 

Silent  slie  sat  his  amorous  breath  to 
hear. 

With  calm  and  steady  eyes ;  her  heart 
was  otherwhere. 

He  sighed  for  her  through  all  the  sum- 
mer weeks ; 

Sitting  beneath  a  tree  whose  fruitful 
boughs 

Bore  gloi-ious  npjdcs  with  smooth,  shin- 
ing cheeks. 

Earl  Gawain  came  and  whispered,  "Lady, 
rouse ! 

Thou  art  no  vestal  lirld  in  holy  vows; 

Out  witli  our  falcons  to  tlie  pleasant 
heath." 

Her  fatlirr's  blood  leapt  up  unto  lier 
brows,  — 


And  onward  I  must  float  through  slow, 
moon-measured  years. 

"Ye  winds  !  when  like  a  curse  ye  drove 

us  on, 
Frothing  the  waters,  and  along  our  way. 
Nor    cape    nor    headland    through    red 

mornings  shone. 
One  wept  aloud,  one  shuddered  down  to 

pray, 
One    howled    '  Upon   the    deep   we    are 

astray.' 
On  our  wild  hearts  his  words  fell  like  a 

blight : 
In  one  short  hour  niy  hair  was  stricken 

g'-a.v, 
For  all   the   crew   sank    gha.stly   in    my 

siglit 
As   we   went    driving    on    through    tlie 

cold  starry  night. 

"Madness  fell  on  me  in  my  lonelines.s. 
The  .sea  foamed  curses,  and  the  reeling 
sky 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


265 


Became  a  dreadful  face  which  did  oppress  , 
Me  with  the  weight  of  its  unwinking 

eye. 
It  fied,  when  I  burst  forth  into  a  cr)',  — 
A  shoal  of  fiends  came  on  me  from  the 

deep ; 
I  hid,  but  in  all  corners  they  did  jny, 
And  dragged  me  forth,  and  round  did 

dance  and  leap ; 
They  mouthed  on  me  in  dream,  and  tore 

me  from  sweet  sleep. 

"Strange   constellations    burned   above 

my  head, 
Strange  birds  around  the  vessel  shrieked 

and  tlew, 
Strange  shapes,  like  shadows,   through 

the  clear  sea  fled. 
As   our   lone    ship,    wide-winged,  came 

rippling  through, 
Angering  to  foam  the  smooth  and  sleep- 
ing blue." 
The  lady  sighed,  "Far,  far  upon  the  sea. 
My  own  Sir  Arthur,  could  I  die  with  you  ! 
The  wind  blows  shrill  between  my  love 

and  me." 
Fond  heart !  the  space  between  was  but 

the  apple-tree. 

There  was  a  cry  of  joy,   with  seeking 

hands 
She  fled  to  him,  like  worn  bird  to  her 

nest; 
Like  washing  water  on  the  figured  sands, 
His  being  came  and  went  in  sweet  un- 
rest, 
As  from  the  mighty  shelter  of  his  breast 
The  Lady  Barbara  her  head  uprears 
With  a  wan  smile,  "Methinks  I 'm  but 

half  blest : 
Now  when  I  've  found  thee,  after  weary 

years, 
I  cannot  see  thee,  love !  so  blind  I  am 
with  tears." 


MATTHEW  AENOLD. 


THE  TERRACE  AT  BERNE. 

Ten  years! — and  to  my  waking  eye 
Once  more  the  roofs  of  Berne  appear 

The  rocky  banks,  the  terrace  high, 
The  stream,  —  and  do  1  linger  here  ? 


The  clouds  are  on  the  Oberland, 

Tlie  Jungfrau  snows  look  faint  and  far ; 

But  blight  are  those  green  fields  at  hand. 
And  through  those  fields  comes  down 
the  Aar, 

And  from  the  blue  twin  lakes  it  comes. 
Flows  by  the   town,   the   churchyard 
fair, 
And  'neath  the  garden-walk  it  hums, 
The   house, — and  is   my  Marguerite 
there  ? 

Ah,  shall  I  see  thee,  wliile  a  flush 
Of  startled  pleasure  floods  thy  brow, 

Quick  through  the  oleanders  brush. 
And  clap  thy  hands,  and   cry,  '  T  is 
thou? 

Or  hast  thou  long  since  wandered  back, 
Daughter  of  France !  to  France,  thy 
home ; 

And  flitted  down  the  flowery  track 
Where  feet  like  tliine  too  lightly  come  ? 

Doth  riotous  laughter  now  replace 
Thy  smile,  and  rouge,  with  stony  glare, 

Thy  cheek's  soft  hue  and  fluttering  lace 
The  kerchief  that  enwound  thy  hair? 

Or  is  it  over? — art  thou  dead?  — 
Dead?  —  and  no  warning  shiver  ran 

Across  my  heart,  to  say  thy  tliread 
Of  life  was  cut,  and  closed  thy  sjian  ! 

Could  from  earth's  ways  that  figure  slight 
Be  lost,  and  I  not  ieel  't  was  so  ? 

Of  tliat  fresh  voice  the  gay  delight 
Fail  fi'om  earth's  air,  and  I  not  know  ? 

Or  shall  I  find  thee  still,  but  changed. 
But  not  the  ilarguerite  of  thy  prime  ? 

With  all  thy  being  rearranged. 

Passed  through  the  crucible  of  time ; 

With  spirit  vanished,  beauty  waned, 
And  liardly  yet  a  glance,  a  tone, 

A  gesture,  — anything,  —  retained 

Of  all  that  was  my  ]\Iarguerite's  own  ? 

I  will  not  know  ! — for  wherefore  try 
To  things  by  mortal  course  that  live 

A  shadowy  durability 

For  which  they  were  not  meant  to  give  ? 

Like  driftwood  spars  which  meet  and  pass 
Upon  the  boundless  ocean-plain. 


266 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


So  on  the  sea  of  life,  alas ! 

Man  nears  man,  meets,  and  leaves  again. 

I  knew  it  when  my  life  was  young, 
I  feel  it  still,  now  youth  is  o'er ! 

The  mists  are  on  tlie  mountain  hung, 
And  Mai'sueiite  I  shall  see  no  more. 


URANIA. 

She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 
While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die ; 
Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare. 
Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 
Was  turned  upon  the  sons  of  men; 
But  light  the  serious  visage  grew, — 
She  looked,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them 
through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 
Our  labored  puin'  passion-fits,  — 
Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she  ! 

Yet  0,  that  Fate  would  let  her  see 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  we,  — 
One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  pi'ove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights,  — 
His  voice  like  sounds  of  sumraernights,  — ■ 
In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  ])ierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe  ! 

And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 
And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand, 
And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee  ! 
And  cry,  Long,  long  I've  looked  for  thee  ! 

Then  will  she  weep,  — with  smiles,  till 
tlien. 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men. 
Till  then  her  lovely  ey(!s  maintain 
Their  gay,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 


THE   LAST  WORD. 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed, 
Creep,  ami  let  no  more  be  said ! 
Vain  thy  onset !  all  stands  fast ; 
Thou  thyself  must  break  at  last. 


Let  the  long  contention  cease  ! 
Geese  are  swans,  and  swans  are  geese. 
Let  them  have  it  how  they  will ! 
Thou  art  tired ;  best  be  still ! 

They  out-talked  thee,  hissed  thee,  tore 

thee. 
Better  men  fared  thus  before  thee; 
Fired  their  ringing  shot  and  passed, 
Hotly  charged, — and  broke  at  last. 

Charge  once  more,  then,  and  be  dumb ! 
Let  the  victors,  when  they  come, 
When  the  forts  of  folly  fall. 
Find  thy  body  by  the  walL 


KOBEKT  LORD  LYTTON. 

THE  ARTIST. 

0  Artist,  range  not  over-wide : 
Lest  what  thou  seek  be  haply  hid 

In  bramble-blossoms  at  thy  side. 
Or  shut  within  the  daisy-lid. 

God's  glory  lies  not  out  of  reach. 

The  moss  we  crush  beneath  our  feet. 
The  pebbles  on  the  Avet  sea-beach, 

Have   solemn   meanings  strange  and 
sweet. 


The  peasant  at  his  cottage  door 

May  teach  thee  more  than  Plato  knew ; 

See  that  thou  scorn  him  not:  adore 
God  in  him,  and  thy  nature  too. 

Know  well  thy  friends.     The  woodbine's 
breath. 

The  woolly  tendril  on  the  vine, 
Are  more  to  thee  than  Cato's  death. 

Or  Cicero's  words  to  Catiline. 

The  wild  rose  is  thy  next  in  blood  : 
Share  Nature  with  her,  and  thy  heart. 

The  kingcu])S  are  thy  sisterhood  : 
Consult  them  duly  on  thine  art. 

The  Genius  on  thy  daily  ways 

Shall  ineet,  and  take  thee  by  the  hand: 
But  serve  him  not  as  who  obeys : 

He  is  thy  slave  if  thou  command  : 

And  blossoms  on  the  blackberry-stalks 
He  shall  enchant  as  thou  dost  pass. 


ROBERT   LORD   LYTTON. 


267 


Till  they  drop  gold  upon  thy  walks, 
And  diamonds  in  the  dewy  grass. 

Be  quiet.     Take  things  as  they  come  : 
Each  hour  will  draw  out  some  surprise. 

With  blessing  let  the  days  go  home: 
Thou  shalt  have  thanks  from  evejiing 
skies. 

Lean  not  on  one  mind  constantly : 

Lest,  where  one  stood  before,  two  fall. 

Something  God  hath  to  say  to  thee 
Worth  hearing  from  the  lips  of  all. 

All  things  are  thine  estate:  yet  must 
Thou  first  display  the  title-deeds, 

And  sue  the  world.     Be;  strong :  and  trust 
High  instincts  more  than  all  the  creeds. 

The  world  of  Thought  is  packed  so  tight, 
Jf  thou  stand  up  another  tumbles  : 

Heed  it  not,  though  thou  have  to  fight 
With  giants ;  whoso  follows  stumbles. 

Assert  thyself:  and  by  and  by 

The  world  will  come  and  lean  on  thee. 

But  seek  not  praise  of  men  :  thereby 
Shall  false  shows  cheat  thee.     Boldly 
be. 

Each  man  was  worthy  at  the  first : 
God  spake  to  us  ei'e  we  weie  born  : 

But  we  forget.  The  land  is  curst : 
We  plant  the  brier,  reap  the  thorn. 

Remember,  every  man  He  made 
Is  different :  has  some  deed  to  do. 

Some  work  to  work. '   Be  undismayed. 
Though  thine  be  humble  :  do  it  too. 

Not  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools 

Ls  wise  for  thee.      Hast  thou  to  speak  ? 

No  man  hath  s]ioken  for  thee.      Rules 
Are  well :  but  never  fear  to  break 

The  scaffolding  of  other  souls: 

It  was  not  meant  for  thee  to  mount ; 

Though    it    may   serve    thee.      Separate 
wholes 
Make  up  the  sum  of  God's  account. 

Earth's  number-scale  is  near  us  set ; 

The  total  God  alone  can  see  ; 
But  each  some  fraction  :  shall  I  fret 

If  you  see  Four  where  I  saw  Three? 

A  unit's  loss  the  sum  would  mar ; 
Therefore  if  1  have  One  or  Two, 


I  am  as  rich  as  others  are, 

And  help  the  whole  as  well  as  you. 

This  wild  white  rosebud  in  my  hand 
Hath  meanings  meant  for  me  alone, 

Which  no  one  else  can  understand : 
To  you  it  breathes  with  altered  tone : 

We  go  to  Nature,  not  as  lords, 

But  servants;  and  she  treats  us  thus: 

Speaks  to  us  with  indifferent  words. 
And  from  a  distance  looks  at  us. 

Let  us  go  boldh^  as  we  ought, 
And  say  to  her,  "  We  are  a  part 

Of  that  supreme  original  Thought 

Which  did  conceive  thee  what  thou  art : 

"  We  will  not  have  this  lofty  look  : 
Thou  shalt  fall  down,  and  recognize 

Thy  kings  :  we  will  write  in  thy  book  ; 
Command  thee  with  our  eyes." 

She  hath  nsurpt  us.  She  should  be 
Our  model ;  but  we  have  become 

Her  miniature-painters.     So  when  we 
Entreat  her  softly,  she  is  dumb. 

Nor  serve  the  subject  overmuch  : 

Nor  rhythm  and  rhyme,  nor  color  and 
form. 

Know  Truth  hath  all  great  graces,  such 
As  shall  with  these  thy  work  inform. 

We  ransack  History's  tattered  page : 
We  prate  of  epoch  and  costume  : 

Call  this,  and  that,  the  Classic  Age : 
Choose  tunic  now,  now  helm  and  jdume: 

But  while  we  halt  in  weak  debate 

'Twixt  that  and  this  appropriate  theme. 

The  offended  wild-flowers  stare  and  wait. 
The  bird  hoots  at  us  from  the  stream. 

Next,  as  to  laws.  What  's  beautiful 
We  recognize  in  form  and  face : 

And  judge  it  thus,  and  thus,  by  rule. 
As  perfect  law  brings  perfect  grace : 

If  through  the  effect  we  drag  the  cause, 

Dissect,  divide,  anatomize, 
Results  are  lost  in  loathsome  laws, 

And  all  the  ancient  beauty  dies: 

Till  we.  instead  of  bloom  and  light, 
See  only  sinews,  nerves,  and  veins; 

Nor  will  the  effet't  and  cause  unite, 
For  one  is  lost  if  one  remains : 


268 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTUEIES. 


But  from  some  higher  point  Lehold 
Tliis  dense,  perjilexing  complication; 

And  laws  involved  in  laws  untold, 
And  orb  into  thy  contemplation. 

God,  when  he  made  the  seed,  conceived 
The  flower ;  and  all  the  work  of  sun 

And  rain,  before  the  stem  was  leaved. 
In  that  prenatal  thought  was  done ; 

The  girl  who  twines  in  her  soft  hair 
The  orange-flower,  with  love's  devotion, 

By  the  mere  act  of  being  fair 

Sets  countless  laws  of  life  in  motion ; 

So  thou,  by  one  thought  thoroughlv great, 
Shalt,  without  heed  thereto,  fulfll 

All  laws  of  art.      Ci'eate  !  create  ! 

Dissection  leaves  the  dead  dead  still. 

Burn  catalogues.     Write  thine  own  books. 

What  need  to  pore  o'er  Greece  and  Rome? 
When  whoso  through  his  own  life  looks 

Shall  find  that  he  is  fully  come, 

Through  Greece  and  Rome,  and  Middle 
Age : 

Hath  been  by  turns,  ere  yet  full-grown, 
Soldier,  and  Senator,  and  Sage, 

And  worn  the  tunic  and  the  gown. 

Cut  the  world  thoroughly  to  the  heart. 

The  sweet  and  bitter  kernel  crack. 
Have  no  half-dealings  with  thine  art. 

All  heaven  is  waiting :  turn  not  back. 

If  all  the  world  for  thee  and  me 
One  solitai-y  shape  jiossessed. 

What  shall  I  say  ?  a  single  tree, 
Whereby  to  type  and  hint  the  rest, 

And  I  could  imitate  the  bark 

And  foliage,  both  in  form  and  hue, 

Or  silvery-gray,  or  brown  and  dark. 
Or  rough  with  moss,  or  wet  with  dew, 

But  thou,  with  one  form  in  thine  eye, 
Coulilst  penetrate  all  forms  :  possess 

The  soul  of  form  :  and  multiply 
A  million  like  it,  more  or  less, — 

Which  were  the  Artist  of  us  twain  ? 

The  moral 's  clear  to  understand. 
Where'er  we  walk,  by  hill  or  plain, 

Is  there  no  mystery  on  the  land  ? 


The  osiered,  oozy  water,  ruffled 

By  tlutteiing  swifts  that  dip  and  wink  : 

Deep  cattle  in  the  cowslips  nmffled. 
Or  lazy-eyed  upon  the  brink  : 

Or,  when  —  a  scroll  of  stars  —  the  night 
(By  God  withdrawn)  is  roiled  away, 

The  silent  sun,  on  some  cold  height. 
Breaking  the  great  seal  of  the  day : 

Are  these  not  words  more  rich  than  ours? 

0,  seize  their  im])oit  if  you  can  ! 
Our   souls   are   parched   like    withering 
flowers, 

Our  knowledge  ends  where  it  began. 

AVhile  yet  about  us  fall  God's  dews; 

And  whisper  secrets  o'er  the  earth 
Worth  all  the  weary  years  we  lose 

In  learning  legends  of  our  birth, 

Arise,  0  Artist !  and  restore 

Their  music  to  the  moaning  winds, 

Love's  broken  pearls  to  life's  bare  shore, 
And  freshness  to  our  fainting  minds. 


ANNE  WHITNEY. 

[V    S.   A.] 

BERTHA. 

The  leaves  have  fallen  from  the  trees; 
For  under  them  grew  the  buds  of  May, 
And  such  is  Nature's  constant  way; 

Let  us  aceej)t  the  work  of  her  hand. 
Still,  if  the  winds  sweep  bare  the  height, 
Something  is  left  for  hearts'  delight. 

Let  us  but  know  and  understand. 

Bertlialooked  down  from  the  rocky  clilT, 
Whose  feet  the  tender  foam-wreaths  kist. 
Toward  the  outer  circle  of  mist 

That  hedged  the  old  and  wonderful  sea. 
Below  her,  as  if  with  endless  hope, 
Up  the  beach's  marbled  s]o])e. 

The  waters  clomb  eternally. 

^lany  a  long-bleached  sail  in  sight 
Ilovereil  awhih',  tlien  flitted  away. 
Beyond  the  ojiening  (if  tlie  bay  ; 

Fair  Bertha  entered  her  cottage  late; 
"He  does  not  come,"she  said,  and  smiled, 


J.    H.    PERKINS. 


269 


"But  the  shore  is  dark,  and  the  sea  is  wild, 
And,  dearest  father,  we  still  must  wait." 

She  hastened  to  her  inner  room, 
And  silently  mused  there  alone  ; 
"  Three  springs  have  come,  three  winters 
gone. 

And  still  we  wait  from  hour  to  hour; 
But  earth  waits  long  i'or  her  harvest-time, 
And  the  aloe,  in  the  northern  clime, " 

Waits  an  hundred  years  for  its  flower. 

"Under  the  apple-boughs  as  I  sit 
In  May-time,  when  the  robin's  song 
Thrills  the  odorous  winds  along. 

The  innermost  heaven  seems  to  ope  ; 
I  think,  though  the  old  joys  pass  from 

sight, 
Still  something  is  left  for  hearts' delight. 

For  life  is  endless,  and  so  is  hope. 

"If  the  aloe  waits  an  hundred  years, 
And  God's  times  are  so  long  indeed 
For  simple  things,  as  flower  and  weed, 

That  gather  only  the  light  and  gloom. 

For  what  great  treasures  of  joy  and  dole. 

Of  life  and  death,  perchance,  must  the 

soul, 

Ere  it  flower  in  heavenly  peace,  find 

room  ? 

"I  see  that  all  things  wait  in  trust. 
As  feeling  afar  God's  distant  ends. 
And  unto  every  creature  he  sends 

That  measuie  of  good  that  fills  its  scope  ; 
The  marmot  enters  the  stiffening  mould. 
And  the  worm  its  dark  sepulchral  fold, 

To  hide  there  with  its  beautiful  hope." 

Still  Bertha  waited  on  the  cliff", 
To  catch  the  gleam  of  a  coming  sail, 
And  the  distant  whisper  of  the  gale. 

Winging  the  unforgotten  home; 
And  hope  at  her  yearning  heart  would 

knock, 
When  a  sunbeam  on  a  far-off"  rock 

Married  a  wreath  of  wandering  foam. 

Was  it  well?  you  ask  —  (nay,  was  it 
ill?)  — 
Who  sat  last  year  by  the  old  man's  hearth ; 
The  sun  had  passed  below  the  earth. 
And  tlie  first  star  locked  its  western 
gate. 
When  Berthaentered  hisdarkeninghome. 
And  smiling  said,  "He  does  not  come, 
But,  dearest  father,  we  still  can  wait ! " 


J.  n.  rERKiNs, 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  UPRIGHT  S0I7L. 

Late  to  our  town  there  came  a  maid, 
A  noble  woman,  true  and  ])ure. 

Who,  in  the  little  while  she  stayed. 
Wrought  works  that  shall  endure. 

It  was  not  anything  she  said,  — 
It  was  not  anything  she  did : 

It  was  the  movement  of  her  head, 
The  lifting  of  her  lid. 

Her  little  motions  when  she  spoke. 
The  presence  of  an  upright  soul, 

The  living  liglit  that  from  her  broke, 
It  was  the  perfect  whole  : 

We  saw  it  in  her  floating  hair. 
We  saw  it  in  her  laughing  eye ; 

For  every  look  and  feature  there 
AVrought  works  that  cannot  die. 

For  she  to  many  spirits  gave 

A  reverence  for  tlie  true,  the  pure. 

The  perfect,  that  lias  power  to  save, 
And  make  the  doubting  sure. 

She  passed,  she  went  to  other  lands. 
She  knew  not  of  the  work  she  did  ; 

The  wondrous  product  of  her  hands 
From  her  is  ever  hid. 

Forever,  did  I  say?     0,  no  ! 

The  time  must  come  wlien  she  will  look 
Upon  her  pilgrimage  below, 

And  find  it  in  God's  book, 

That,  as  she  trod  her  path  aright, 
Power  from  her  very  garments  stole; 

For  such  is  the  mysterious  might 
God  grants  the  upright  soul. 

A  deed,  a  word,  our  careless  rest, 

A  simple  thought,  a  common  feeling. 

If  He  be  present  in  the  breast, 
Has  from  him  powers  of  healing. 

Go,  maiden,  witli  thy  golden  tresses. 
Thine  azure  eye  and  changing  cheek. 

Go,  and  forget  tlie  one  who  blesses 
Thy  presence  through  the  week. 


270 


SOKCxS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Forget  him :  he  will  not  forget, 
But  strive  to  live  and  testify 

Thy  goodness,  when  earth's  sun  has  set, 
And  Time  itself  rolled  by. 


GEORGE  MACDONALD. 


O  LASSIE  AYONT  THE  HILL! 

0  LASSIE  avont  the  hill ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill. 
Or  roim'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill^ 
For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht, 

1  'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
For  I  'm  tired  and  sick  o'  mysel', 

A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht,  — 

0  lassie,  come  ower  the  hill ! 

Gin  a  bodj'  could  be  a  thocht  o'  grace. 
And  no  a  sel'  ava  ! 

1  'm  sick  o'  my  held,  and  my  ban's  and 

my  face, 
An'  my  thochts  and  mysel'  and  a' ; 
I  'm  sick  o'  the  warl'  and  a' ; 
The  licht  gangs  by  wi'  a  hiss ; 
For  thro'  my  een  Ihe  sunbeams  fa'. 
But  my  weary  heart  they  miss. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill. 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill ; 
Bidena  ayont  the  hill ! 

For  gin  ance  I  saw  }'er  bonnie  heid, 

And  the  sunlicht  o'  yer  hair, 

The  ghaist  o'  mysel' "wad  fa'  doun  deid  ; 

1  wad  be  mysel'  nae  mair. 
I  wad  be  mysel'  nae  mair. 
Filled  o'  the  sole  remeid ; 

Slain  by  the  arrows  o'  liclit  frae  j-er  hair. 
Killed  by  j-er  body  and  heid. 

0  lassie  ayont  the"  hill,  etc. 

But  gin  ye  lo'ed  me  ever  sae  .sma', 
For  the  sake  o'  my  bonnie  dame, 
Wlian  I  cam'  to  life,  as  she  gaed  awa', 

1  could  bide  my  body  and  name, 

I  niicht  bide  by  mysel'  the  weary  same; 

Aye  setting  n]i  its  heid 
Till  I  turn  frae  the  claes  that  cover  my 

fianie. 
As  gin  they  war  roun'  the  deid. 
0  lassie  ayont  the  liill,  etc. 


But  gin  ye  lo'ed  me  as  I  lo'e  j'ou, 

I  wad  ling  my  ain  deid  knell ; 

Mysel'    wad   vanish,  shot   through    and 

through 
Wi'  the  shine  o'  yer  sunny  sel', 
By  the  licht  aiieath  yer  broo, 
I  wad  dee  to  mysel',  and  ring  my  bell, 
And  only  live  in  you. 

0  lassie  ayont  the  hill ! 
Come  ower  the  tap  o'  the  hill. 
Or  roun'  the  neuk  o'  the  hill. 
For  I  want  ye  sair  the  nicht, 

1  'm  needin'  ye  sair  the  nicht, 
For  I  'm  tired  and  sick  o'  mysel', 

A  body's  sel'  's  the  sairest  weicht,  — 
0  lassie,  come  ower  the  hill ! 


HYMN  FOR  THE  MOTHER. 

My  child  is  lying  on  my  knees ; 

The  signs  of  heaven  she  reads; 
My  face  is  all  the  heaven  she  sees, 

Is  all  the  heaven  she  needs. 

And  she  is  well,  yea,  bathed  in  bliss. 
If  heaven  is  in  my  face, — 

Behind  it  is  all  tenderness 
And  truthfulness  and  grace. 

I  mean  her  well  so  earnestly, 
Unchanged  in  changing  mood  ; 

My  life  would  go  without  a  sigh 
To  bring  her  something  good. 

I  also  am  a  child,  and  I 

Am  ignorant  and  weak  ; 
I  gaze  upon  the  starry  sky. 

And  then  I  must  not  speak  ; 

For  all  behind  the  starry  sky. 
Behind  tlie  world  so  broad. 

Behind  men's  hearts  and  souls  doth  lie 
The  Infinite  of  God. 

Ay,  true  to  her,  though  troubled  sore, 

I  cannot  choose  but  be : 
Thou  who  art  peace  forevermore 

Art  very  true  to  me. 

If  I  am  low  and  sinful,  bring 
More  love  where  need  is  rife ; 

TJwii  knowest  what  an  awful  thing 
It  is  to  be  a  life. 


ELIZA   SPROAT   TURNER. 


271 


Hast  thcu  not  wisdom  to  enwrap 
My  w'aywardness  about, 

In  doubting  safety  on  the  lap 
Of  Love  that  knows  no  doubt  ? 

Lo !  Lord,  I  sit  in  thy  wide  space, 
My  child  upon  my  knee ; 

She  looketli  up  into  my  face, 
And  I  look  up  to  thee. 


ELIZA  SPROAT  TURNER. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

AN  ANGEL'S  VISIT. 

She  stood  in  the  harvest-iield  at  noon, 
And  sang  aloud  for  the  joy  of  living. 

She  said :  '"T  is  the  sun  that  I  drink  like 
wine. 
To  my  heart  this  gladness  giving." 

Eank  upon  rank  the  wheat  fell  slain  ; 

The  reapers  ceased.      "'Tis  sure  the 
splendor 
Of  sloping  sunset  light  that  thrills 

My  breast  with  a  bliss  so  tender." 

Up  and  up  the  blazing  hills 

Climbeil   the    night   from   the   misty 
meadows. 
"Can  they  be  stars,  or  living  eyes 

That  bend  on  me  from  the  shadows?" 

"Greeting ! "  "And  may  vou  speak,  in- 
deed?" 

All  in  the  dark  her  sense  grew  clearer; 
She  knew  that  she  had,  for  company. 

All  day  an  angel  near  her. 

"May  }'ou  tell  us  of  the  life  divine. 
To  us  unknown,  to  angels  given?" 

"Count  me  your  earthly  joys,  and  I 
May  teach  you  those  of  heaven." 

"They  say  the  pleasures  of  earth  are  vain  ; 

Delusions  all,  to  lure  from  duty ; 
But  while  God  hangs  his  bow  in  tlie  rain, 

Can  I  help  my  joy  in  beauty? 

"And while  he  quickens  theairwith  song. 
My  breaths  with  scent,  my  fruits  with 
flavor. 


Will  he,  dear  angel,  count  as  sin 
My  life  in  sound  and  savor  ? 

"See,  at  our  feet  the  glow-worm  shines, 
Lo  !  in  the  east  a  star  arises ; 

And  thought  may  climb  from  worm  to 
world 
Forever  through  fresh  surprises  : 

"And   thought  is  jo}-.  .  .  .  And,  hark! 
in  the  vale 
Music,  and  merry  steps  pursuing ; 
They  lea])  in  the  dance,  —  a  soul  in  my 
blood 
Cries  out,  Awake,  be  doing ! 

"Action  is  joy;  or  power  at  play. 
Or  power  at  work  in  world  or  emprises ; 

Action  is  life  ;  part  from  th^  deed, 
More  from  the  doing  rises." 

"And  are  these  all  ? "     She  flushed  in  the 
dark. 

"These  are  not  all.     I  have  a  lover; 
At  sound  of  his  voice,  at  touch  of  his  hand, 

The  cup  of  my  life  runs  over. 

"Once,    unknowing,    we    looked     and 
neared. 
And  doubted,  and  neared,  and  rested 
never, 
Till  life  seized  life,  as  flame  meets  f.auie, 
To  escape  no  more  forever. 

"Lover  and  husband;  then  was  love 
The  wine  of  my  life,  all  life  enhancing : 

Now  't  is  my  bread,  too  needful  and  sweet 
To  be  kept  for  feast-day  chancing. 

"  I  have  a  child."    She  seemed  to  change  ; 
The  deep  content   of  some   brooding 
creature 
Looked  from  her  eyes.     "0,  sweet  and 
strange  ! 
Angel,  be  thou  my  teacher : 

"  When  He  made  us  one  in  a  babe. 
Was  it  for  joy,  or  sorest  jiroving? 

For  now  T  fear  no  heaven  could  win 
Our  hearts  from  earthly  loving. 

"I  have  a  friend.     Howso  I  err, 

I  see  her  ujilifting  love  bend  o'er  me; 

Howso  I  climb  to  my  best,  1  know 
Her  foot  will  be  there  before  me. 


272 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


"Howso  parted,  we  must  he  nigh, 
Held  by  old  years  of  every  weather ; 

The  best  new  love  would  be  less  than  ours 
Who  have  lived  our  lives  together. 

"Now,  lest  forever  I  fail  to  see 

Eight  skies,  through  elouds  so  bright 
and  tender, 

Show  me  true  joy."     The  angel's  smile 
Lit  all  the  night  with  splendor. 

"Save  that  to  Love  and  Learn  and  Do 
In  wondrous  measure  to  us  is  given ; 

Save  that  we  see  the  face  of  God, 

You  have  named  the  joys  of  heaven." 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 


AFTER  DEATH. 

The  curtains  were  half  drawn,  the  floor 
was  swept 
And  strewn  with  rushes ;  rosemary  and 

may 
Lay  thick  upon  the  bed  on  which  I  lay, 
"Where  through  the  lattice  ivy-shadows 

crept.  4 

He  leaned  above  me,  thinking  that  I  slept. 
And  could  not  hear  him ;  but  I  hearil 

him  say, 
"Poor  child!  poor  child!"  and  as  he 
turned  away, 
Came  a  deep  silence,  and  I  knew  he  wept. 
He  did  not  touch  the  shroud,  or  raise 
the  fold 
That  hid  my  face,  or  take  my  hand  in  his. 
Or  ruffle  the  smooth  pillows  for  my  liead. 
He  did  not  love  me  living :  but  once 
dead 
He  pitied  me ;  and  very  sweet  it  is 
To  know  he  still  is  warm,  though  I  am 
cold. 


WEARY. 

I  WOULD  have  gone  ;  God  bade  me  stay : 
I  would  have  worked;  God  bade  me 
rest. 
He  broke  my  will  from  day  to  day ; 
He  read  my  yearnings  unexpressed, 
And  said  me  nay. 


Now  I  would  stay ;  God  bids  me  go : 
Now  I  would  rest ;  God  bids  me  work. 

He  breaks  my  heart  tossed  to  and  fro ; 
My  soul  is  wrung  with  doubts  that  lurk 
And  vex  it  so ! 

I  go.  Lord,  where  thou  sendest  me ; 

Day  after  day  I  plod  and  moil ; 
But,  Christ  my  Lord,  when  will  it  be 

That  I  may  let  alone  my  toil 
And  rest  with  thee  ? 


DORA  GREENWELL. 


THE  SUNFLOWER. 

Till  the  slow  daylight  pale, 
A  willing  slave,  fast  bound  tu  one  above, 
I  wait ;  he  seems  to  speed,  and  change, 
and  fail ; 

I  know  he  will  not  move. 

I  lift  my  golden  orb 
To  his,  unsmitten  when  the  roses  die, 
And  in  my  broad  and  burning  disk  ab- 
sorb 

The  sjjlendors  of  his  eye. 

His  eye  is  like  a  clear 
Keen  flame  that  searches  through  me ;  I 

must  droop 
Upon  my  stalk,  I  cannot  reach  his  sphere ; 

To  mine  he  cannot  stoop. 

I  win  not  my  desire. 
And  yet  I  fail  not  of  my  guerdon  ;  lo  ! 
A  thousand  flickering  darts  and  tongues 
of  tire 

Around  me  spread  and  glow; 

All  rayed  and  crowned,  I  miss 
No  queenly  state  until  the  summer  wane, 
The  hours  flit  by;  none  knoweth  of  my 
bliss. 

Anil  none  has  guessed  my  pain ; 

I  follow  one  above, 
I  track  the  shadow  of  iiis  steps,  I  grow 
Most  like  to  him  I  love 

Of  all  that  shines  below. 


ELIZABETH   H.   WHITTIER. 


273 


VESPERS. 

When  I  have  said  mj  quiet  say, 
When  I  have  sung  my  little  song, 
How  sweetly,  sweetly  dies  the  day 
The  valley  and  the  hill  along  ; 
How  sweet  the  summons,  "Come  away," 
That  calls  nie  tVom  the  busy  throng ! 

I  thought  beside  the  watei-'s  flow 
Awhile  to  lie  beneath  the  leaves, 
I  thought  in  Autumn's  harvest  glow 
To  rest  my  head  upon  the  sheaves ; 
But,  lo !  methinks  the  day  was  brief 
And  cloudy ;  flower,  nor  fruit,  nor  leaf 
1  bring,  and  yet  acce]ited,  free. 
And  blest,  my  Lord,  1  come  to  thee. 

What  matter  now  for  promise  lost. 
Through  b'.ast  of  spring  or  summer  rains ! 
AVhat  matter  now  lor  ]]urpose  crost. 
For  broken  hoj)es  and  wasted  pains  ; 
What  if  the  olive  little  yields, 
What  if  the  grape  be  blighted  ?    Thine 
The  corn  u])on  a  thousand  fields. 
Upon  a  thousand  hills  the  vine. 

Thou  lovest  still  the  poor ;  0,  blest 
In  poverty  beloved  to  be ! 
Less  lowly  is  my  choice  confessed, 
I  love  the  rich  in  loving  Thee  ! 
JMy  spirit  bare  before  thee  stands, 
I  bring  no  gift,  I  ask  no  sign, 
I  come  to  thee  with  empty  hands. 
The  surer  to  be  filled  from  thine  ! 


ELIZABETH  H.  WHITTIER. 

[U.    S.    A.,    1816-1848.] 

CHARITY. 

Tpie  pilgrim  and  sti'anger,  who,  through 

the  day. 
Holds  over  the  desert  his  trackless  v.-ay, 
Where  the  terrible  sands  no  shade  have 

known. 
No  sound  of  life  save  his  camel's  moan. 
Hears,   at    last,    through   the   mercy  of 

Allah  to  all. 
From  his  tent-door,  at  evening,  the  Bed- 
ouin's call : 
' '  Whoever  thou  art,  whose  need  isgreat, 
In  the  namcof  (iod,  the  (^omjiassionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  I  wait!" 
18 


For  gifts,  in  his  name,  of  food  and  rest. 
The  tents  of  Islam  of  God  are  blest. 
Thou,  who  hast  faith  in  the  Christ  above, 
Shall  the  Koran  teach  thee  the  Law  of 

Love  ? 
0  Christian  !  —  open  thy  heart  and  door, — 
Cry,  east    and    west,  to    the    wandering 
poor,  — 
"Whoever  thou  art,  whose  need  isgreat. 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  the  Compas- 
sionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  I  wait !  " 


THE   MEETING   "WATERS. 

Close  beside  the  meeting  waters, 
Long  I  stood  as  in  a  dream. 

Watching  how  the  little  liver 
Fell  into  the  broader  stream. 

Calm  and  still  the  mingled  current 
Glided  to  the  waiting  sea  ; 

On  its  breast  serenely  pictured 
Floating  cloud  and  skirting  tree. 

And  I  thought,  "O  human  spirit ! 

Stiong  and  deep  and  pure  and  blest. 
Let  the  stream  of  my  existence 

Blend  with  thine,  and  find  its  rest !" 

I  could  die  as  dies  the  river, 
In  that  curent  deeji  and  wide; 

I  would  live  as  lives  its  waters. 
Flashing  from  a  stronger  tide ! 


UNKNOWN. 

WHEN  THE  GRASS  SHALL  COVER  ME. 

WiiEX  the  grass  shall  cover  nie. 
Head  to  foot  where  1  am  lying; 
When  not  any  wind  that  blows, 
Summer  bloom  or  winter  snow.s, 
Shall  awake  me  to  your  sighing : 
Close  above  me  as  you  pass, 
You  will  say,  "How  kind  she  was,"  - 
You  \^■ill  say,  "How  true  she  was," 
When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me, 
Ho'den  close  to  earth's  warm  bosom ; 
While  I  laugh,  oi'  weep, or  sing, 
Nevermore  for  anything 


274 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES, 


You  will  find  in  blade  and  Llossom, 
Swet't  small  voices,  odorous, 
Tt-ndcr  [jleudeis  of  my  cause, 
That  shall  speak  nie  as  I  was,  — 

"When  the  grass  grows  over  me. 

Wlien  the  grass  shall  cover  nie  I 
Ah,  beloved  in  my  sorrow, 

Very  patient  can  1  wait ; 

Knowing  that  or  soon  or  late, 
There  will  dawn  a  clearer  morrow : 

When  your  heart  will  moan,  "Alas, 

Now  I  know  how  true  she  was ; 

Now  1  know  how  dear  sh<;  was,"  — 
Wiien  the  grass  grows  over  me. 


UNKNOWN. 

AGAIN. 

O,  swEKT  and  fair !     0,  rich  and  rare ! 

That  day  so  long  ago. 
Theautuimi  sunshine  everywhere, 

Tlie  heather  all  aglow, 
Tlu^  ferns  were  clad  in  cloth  of  gold, 

The  w'aves  sang  on  the  shore. 
Such  suns  will  shine,  such  waves  will  sing 

Forever  evermore. 

0,  tit  and  few  !     0,  tried  and  true ! 

Tiie  friends  wlio  met  tiiat  day. 
Each  one  the  other's  spirit  knew, 

.\nd  so  in  earnest  play 
The  hours  Ih'w  past,  until  at  last 

The  twilight  kissed  the  shore. 
"We  said,  "Such  days  shall  come  again 

I'orever  evermore." 

One  day  again,  no  cloud  of  pain 

A  shadow  o'er  us  cast ; 
And  yet  w-e  strove  in  vain,  in  vain, 

To  conjure  up  the  past; 
Like,  hut  unlike,  — the  sun  that  shone, 

Tlie  waves  that  beat  the  shore, 
Th;;  words  we  said,  the  songs  we  sung, 

Like,  —  unlike,  — evermore. 

For  gho.sts  unseen  crept  in  between, 

And,  when  our  songs  flowed  free. 
Sang  discords  in  an  undertone, 

And  marreil  our  harmony. 
"The  past  is  ours,  not  yours,"  they  said  : 

"The  waves  that  beat  the  shore. 
Though  like  the  s<nne,  are  not  the  same, 

O,  never,  never  more  !  " 


LUCY  LARCOM. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

A  STRIP  OF  BLUE. 

I  no  not  own  an  inch  of  land, 

But  all  1  see  is  mine,  — 
The  orchard  and  the  mowing-fields. 

The  lawns  and  gardens  fine. 
The  winds  my  tax-collectors  are, 

They  bring  me  tithes  divine,  — 
Wild  scents  and  subtle  essences, 

A  tribute  rare  and  free  : 
And  more  magnificent  than  all, 

My  window  keeps  for  me 
A  glimpse  of  blue  immensity,  — 

A  little  strip  of  sea. 

Richer  am  I  than  he  who  owns 

Great  fieets  and  argosies; 
I  have  a  share  in  every  ship 

Won  by  the  inland  breeze 
To  loiter  on  yon  airy  road 

Above  the  apple-trees. 
I  freight  them  with  my  untold  dreams. 

Each  bears  my  own  ])icked  crew ; 
And  nobler  cargoes  wait  for  them 

Than  ever  India  knew, —  • 

My  ships  that  sail  into  the  East 

Across  that  outlet  blue. 

Sometimes  they  seem  like  livingshapes, — 

The  people  of  the  sky, — 
Guests  in  white  raiment  coming  down 

From  Heaven,  which  is  close  by: 
I  call  them  by  familiar  names. 

As  one  by  one  draws  nigh. 
So  white,  so  light,  so  spirit -like. 

From  violet  mists  they  bloom  ! 
The  aching  wastes  of  the  unknown 

Are  half  reclaimed  from  gloom. 
Since  on  life's  hospitable  sea 

All  souls  find  sailing-room. 

The  ocean  grows  a  weariness 

With  nothing  else  in  sight ; 
Its  east  and  west,  its  north  and  south, 

Spread  out  from  morn  to  night : 
Wo  miss  the  «arm,  caressing  shore, 

Its  brooding  shade  and  light. 
A  ]iart  is  greater  than  the  whole; 

ny  hints  are  mysteries  toldj 
The  fringes  of  eternity,  — 

God's  sweejiing  garment-fold. 
In  that  bright  slired  of  glinnnering  sea, 

I  reach  out  for,  and  hold. 


LUCY   LARCOM. 


275 


The  sails,  like  flakes  of  roseate  pearl, 

Float  ill  upon  the  mist; 
The  waves  are  broken  precious  stones,  — 

Sa]iplui'e  and  amethyst, 
AVashed  from  celestial  basement  walls 

liy  suns  unsetting  kissed. 
Out  through  the  utmost  gates  of  space, 

Past  where  the  gay  stars  drift, 
To  tlie  widening  Intinite,  my  soul 

Glides  on,  a  vessel  swift ; 
Yet  loses  not  her  anchorage 

In  yonder  azure  rift. 

Here  sit  1,  as  a  little  child  : 

The  thresliold  of  God's  door 
Is  that  clear  band  of  chrysoprase ; 

Now  the  vast  temjjle  iloor, 
Ti:e  blinding  glory  of  the  dome 

1  bow  my  head  bei'ore  : 
The  universe,  0  God,  is  home, 

In  height  or  depth,  to  me; 
Yet  here  upon  thy  footstool  green 

Content  am  I  to  be ; 
Glad,  when  is  opened  to  my  need 

Some  sea-like  glimjise  of  thee. 


•         BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

What  is  it  fades  and  flickers  in  the  fire, 
Mutters  and  sighs,  and  yields  reluctant 
breath. 
As  if  in  the  red  embers  some  desire, 
Some  word  prophetic  burned,  defying 
death  ? 

Lords  of  the  forests,  stalwart  oak  and  pine, 
Lie  down  for  us  in  flames  of  martyr- 
dom : 
A  human,  household  warmth,  theirdeath- 
iires  shine  ; 
Yet  fragrant  with  high  memories  they 
come; 

Bringing   the   mountain-winds   that   in 
their  boughs 
Sang  of  the  torrent,  and   the   plashy 
edge 
Of  storm-swept  lakes ;   and  echoes  that 
arouse 
The  eagles   from   a   splintered   eyrie- 
ledgc ; 

And  breath  of  violets  sweet  about  their 
roots ; 
And  earthy  odors  of  the  moss  and  fern ; 


And  hum  of  rivulets ;  smell  of  ripening 
fruits ; 
And  green   leaves   that   to  gold   and 
crimson  turn. 

What  clear  Septembers   fade   out   in   a 
spark ! 
What  rare  Octobers  drop  with  every 
coal! 
Within   these    costly   ashes,  dumb   and 
dark, 
Are  hid  spring's   budding   hoi)e,  and 
summer's  soul. 

Pictures  far  lovelier  smoulder  in  the  fire. 
Visions  of  friends  who  walked  among 
these  trees. 
Whose  presence,  like  the  free  air,  could 
inspire 
A   winged^  life   and   boundless    sym- 
pathies. 

Eyes  with  a  glow  like  that  in  the  brown 
beech, 
When    sunset    through    its    autumn 
beauty  shines ; 
Or  the  blue  gentian's  look  of  silentspeech. 
To  heaven  ajipealing  as  earth's  light 
declines ; 

Voices  and  steps  forever  fled  away 

From  the  familiar  glens,  the  haunted 
hills,— 
Most  pitiful  and  strange  it  is  to  stay 
Without  you  in  a  world  your  lost  love 
fills. 

Do  you  forget  us,  —  under  Eden  trees, 
Or  in  full  sunshine   on  the   hills   of 
God, — 
Who  miss  you  from  the  shadow  and  the 
breeze. 
And  tints  and  peifumes  of  the  wood- 
land sod  ? 

Dear  for  your  sake  the  fireside  where  we 
sit 
Watching   these   sad,  bright  pictures 
come  and  go 
That  waning  years  are  with  your  memory 
lit. 
Is  the  one  lonely  comfort  that  we  know. 

Is  it  all  memory  ?  Lo,  these  forest-boughs 
Burst  on  the  hearth  into   fresh   leaf 
and  bloom ; 


276 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


"Waft  a  vague,  far-off  sweetness  through 
the  house, 
And    give   close   walls   the   hillside's 
breathing-room. 

A  second  life,  more  spiritual  than  the  first, 
They  find,  a  life  won  only  out  of 
death. — 

0  sainted  souls,  within  you  still  is  nursed 
For  us  a  Hanie  not  fed  by  mortal  breath  ! 

Unseen,  ye  bring   to  us,   who  love  and 
wait, 
Wafts  from  the  heavenly  hills,  immor- 
tal air ; 
No    flood    can     quench     your     hearts' 
warmth,  or  abate ; 
Ye  are  our  gladness,  here  and  every- 
where. 


CHARLOTTE  P.  HAWES. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

DOWN  THE  SLOPE. 

Who  knoweth  life  but  questions  death 
With  guessings  of  that  dimmer  day 
When  oiie  is  slowly  lift  from  clay 
On  winged  breath  ? 

l^iit  man  advances:   far  and  high 
His  forces  lly  with  lightning  stroke: 
Till,  worn  with 

He  turns  to  di( 


years,  his  vigor  broke, 


Wlien  lo  !   lie  finds  it  still  a  life  ; 
New  ministration  and  new  trust; 
Along  a  liaji|)y  way  that 's  just 
Asi<le  from  strife. 

And  all  day  following  friendly  feet 
That  lead  on  bravely  to  the  light. 
As    one    walks    downward,  strong 
bright, 
The  slanted  street,  — 


and 


And  feels  earth's  benedictions  wide, 
Alike  on  forest,  lake,  or  town  ; 
Nor  marks  the  sloi)e, — he  going  down 
The  suiini(^st  side. 

0,  bounteous  natures  everywhere! 
Perchance  at  least  one  need  not  fear 
A  change  to  cross  from  your  love  here 
To  God's  love  there. 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  TWO  WORLDS. 

Two  worlds  there  are.     To  one  our  eyes 

we  strain. 
Whose  magic  joys  we  shall  not  see  again : 
Bright  haze  of  moi'ning  veils  its  glim- 
mering shore. 
Ah,  truly  breathed  we  thei'e 
Intoxicating  air,  — 
Glad    were    our   hearts  in  that  sweet 
realm  of 
Nevermore. 


The  lover  there  drank  her  deliciousbreath 
Whose  love  has  yielded  since  to  change 
or  death ; 
The  mother  kissed   her  child  whose 
days  are  o'er. 
Alas  !  too  soon  have  fled 
The  ii'reclaimalile  dead  : 
We  see  them  —  visions  strange — amid 
the 
Nevermore. 


The  merry  song  some  maiden  used  tcfeing, 
The  brown,  brown   hair  that   once   v.as 
■wont  to  cling 
To  temples  longclaj^-cold :  to  the  veiy 
core 
They  strike  our  weary  hearts 
As  some  vexed  memory  starts 
From    that    long    faded    land, —the 
realm  of 
Nevermore. 


It  is  perpetual  summer  there.     But  here 
Sadly  we  may  remember  rivers  clear. 
And  harebells  (|uivering  on  the  mead- 
ow-floor. 
For  brighter  bells  and  bluer. 
For  tendei'cr  hearts  and  truer, 
People  that  hayqiylaud  —  the  i-ealm  of 
Nevermore. 

Upon  the  frontier  of  this  shadowy  land 
We,  pilgrims  of  eternal  sorrow,  stand  : 
What  realm  lies  forward,  with  its  hap- 
pier store 
Of  forests  green  and  deep. 
Of  valleys  hushed  in  sleep. 
And  lakes   most  peaceful?     'T  is  the 
land  of 
Evermore. 


ADELINE   D.    T.   WHITNEY.  —  NANCY   A.    W.    PRIEST. 


277 


Very  far  off  its  marble  cities  seem,  — 
Vervfaroff—bevondoursensual  dream- 
Its  woods,  unruffled  by  the  wild  winds 
roar : 
Yet  does  the  turbulent  surge 
Howl  on  its  very  verge.  _     _ 

One  moment,  —and  we  breathe  withiu 
the 
Evermore. 

They  whom  we  loved  and  lost  so  long 

ago,  . 

Dwell  in   those  cities,  far   from   mortal 

woe,  I 

Haunt   those   fresh    woodlands,  whence 
sweet  carollings  soar. 
Eternal  peace  have  they  : 
God  wipes  their  tears  away : 
They  drink  that  river  of  life  which 
flows  for 
Evermore. 

Thither  we  hasten  through  these  regions 

dim, 
But  lo  !  the  wide  wings  of  the  serapfnm 
Shine  in  the  sunset !     On  that  joyous 
shore 
Our  lightened  hearts  shall  know 
•     The  life  of  long  ago  : 
The  sorrow-burdened  past  shall  fade  lor 
Evermore. 


•I  WILL  ABIDE  IN  THINE  HOUSE." 

Among  so  many,  can  He  care? 
Can  special  love  be  everywhere  ? 
A  myriad  homes,  —a  myriad  ways,  — 
And  God's  eye  over  every  place. 

Over;  but  in?     The  world  is  full ; 
A  grand  omnipotence  must  rule ; 
But  is  there  life  that  doth  abide 
With  mine  own  living,  side  by  side  ? 

So  many,  and  so  wide  abroad : 
Can  any  heart  have  all  of  God? 
From  the  great  spaces,  vague  and  dim. 
May  one  small  household  gather  Hun? 

I  asked:  my  soul  bethought  of  this:— 
In  just  that  very  place  of  his 
Where  He  hath  put  and  keepeth  you, 
God  hath  no  other  thing  to  do ! 


ADELINE  D.  T.  WHITNEY. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

SUNLIGHT  AND  STARLIGHT. 

God  sets  some  souls  in  shade,  alone ; 
They  have  no  daylight  of  their  own  : 
Only  in  lives  of  happier  ones 
They  see  the  shine  of  distant  suns. 

Go,l knows.    Contentthee withthynight, 
Thv  rrreater  heaven  hath  grander  light. 
To-dav  is  close  ;  the  hours  are  small ; 
Thou  sit' St  afar,  and  hast  them  all. 

Lose  the  less  joy  that  doth  but  blind  ; 
l!each  forth  a  larger  bliss  to  find. 
T"-dny  is  bri.'F:   the  inclusive  spheres 
Kain  raptures  of  a  thousand  years. 


NANCY  A.  W.  PRIEST. 

[U     S.    A.] 

OVER  THE  RIVER. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me,  — 
Loved  ones  who've  crossed  to  the  far- 
ther side ; 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 
But  their  voices  are  drowned   in  the 
rushing  tide. 
There  's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gokl. 
And  eyes,  the   reflection   of   heaven's 
own  blue ;  ,      , , 

He  crossed  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold. 
And  the  pale  mist  hid  hnn  from  mortal 
view.  . 

We  sawnot  the  angelswho met  hini  theie; 
The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river. 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome 
me ! 

Over  the  river,  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another, —the  household  pet: 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  thegentlegale  — 

Darling  Minnie  !  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled 
hands. 
And   fearlessly  entered   the  phantom 
bark; 


278 


SONGS   OF   THKEE   CENTURIES. 


We  watched  it  gllile  from  the  silver  sands, 
And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely 
.lark. 

We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  farther  side, 
Where  all  the  ransonied  and  angels  be  ; 

Over  the  river,  tlie  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 
Who  ci'oss  with  the  Ijoatnjan  cold  and 
])ale ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars. 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail, — 
And  lo  I  they  have  passed  from  our  yearn- 
ing heart ; 
They  cross  the  stream,  and  ore  gone  for 
aye ; 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart. 
That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates 
of  day. 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 
May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea  ; 
Yet  somewhere,  1   know,  on  the  unseen 
shore, 
Tiiey  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  1  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's 
gold. 
Is  flushing  river,  and  hill,  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold. 
And  list  foi-  the  sound  of  the  boatman's 
oar ; 
1  shall  watch  for  a  gleaui  of  the  flapping 
sail ; 
I  shall  hear  the  boat  as 
strand ; 

I  shall  pass  fiom  sight,  with  tlie  boat- 
man pale. 
To  the  better  shore  of  tlie  spirit  land ; 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone 
before,  — 
And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
AVhen  over  the  river,  the  ]»eaeeful  river, 
The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 


it  gains  the 


ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER. 


JUDGE  NOT. 

JuDOE  not;  the  workings  of  his  brain 
And  of  his  heart  thou  canst  not  see; 

What  looks  to  thy  dim  eyes  a  stain. 
In  God's  pure  light  may  only  be 


A  scar,  brought  from  some  well- won  field, 
Where  thou  wouldst  only  faint  and  yield. 

The  look,  the  air,  that  frets  thy  sight 

May  be  a  token  that  below 
The  soul  has  closed  in  deadly  fight 

With  some  infernal  fieiy  foe, 
Whose  glance  would  scorch  thy  smiling 

grace, 
And  cast  thee  shuddering  on  thy  face! 

The  fall  thou  darest  to  despise,— 
May  be  the  angel's  slackened  hand 

Has  suff'ered  it,  that  he  may  rise 
And  take  a  firmer,  surer  stand  ; 

Or,  trusting  less  to  earthly  things. 

May  henceforth  learn  to  use  his  wings. 

And  judge  none  lost ;  but  wait  and  see, 
Willi  lioi)eful  pity,  not  disdain; 

The  depth  of  the  abyss  may  be 
The  measure  of  the  height  of  pain 

And  love  and  glory  that  may  i-aise 

This  soul  to  God  iu  after  davs ! 


FRIEND  SORROW. 

Do  not  cheat  thy  heart,  and  tell  her, 

"Grief  will  pass  away  ; 
Hope  for  fairer  times  in  future, 

And  forget  to-day." 
Tell  her,  if  you  will,  that  Sorrow 

Need  not  come  in  vain  ; 
Tell  her  that  the  lesson  taught  her 

Far  outweighs  the  pain. 

Cheat  her  not  with  the  old  comfort 

(Soon  she  will  forget);  — 
Bitter  truth,  —  alas  !  but  matter 

Rather  for  I'cgret. 
•Bid  her  not  seek  other  pleasures. 

Turn  to  other  things  ; 
Eather,  nurse  her  caged  Sorrow 

Till  the  captive  sings. 

Bid  her  rather  go  forth  bravely, 

And  the  stranger  greet. 
Not  as  foe,  with  shield  and  buckler, 

But  as  dear  friends  meet. 
Bid  her  with  a  .strong  grasp  hold  her 

By  the  dusky  wings. 
And  she  '11  whisper,  low  and  gently, 

Blessings  that  she  brings. 


THOMAS   BUCHANAN   READ. 


279 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

Within  his  sober  realm  of  leafless  trees 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air ; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  ol'ease, 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown 
and  bare. 

The  gra\'  barns  looking  from  their  hazy 

hills 

O'er  tlie  dim  waters  widening  in  the 

vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greetinf;  to  the  mills, 

On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  tlails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed  and  all  sounds 
subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  fartherand  the  streams 
sang  low ; 
As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  \\inter  log  with  manj'  a  muffled 
blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in 
gold. 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial 
hue, 
Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of 
old, 
Withdrawn   afar   in   Time's  remotest 
blue. 

On   slumb'rons  wings  the  vulture   held 
his  flight; 
The  dove  scarce  heard  its  sighingmate's 
complaint ; 
And  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  theli<;ht, 
The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale 
and  faint. 

The  sentinel-cock  upon  the  hillside  crew, 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than 
before,  — 
Silent  till  some  replying  warder  blew 
His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no 
more. 

Where  erst  the  ja}',  within  the  elm's  tall 
crest, 
Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  un- 
fledged young, 


And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying 
nest. 
By   every   light   wind    like   a   censer 
swung:  — 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near. 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes. 
An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous 
year;  — 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed   the 
vernal  feast, 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings 
at  morn. 
To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east,  — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  Ibr- 
lorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  ]iiped  tliequail, 
And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the 
dreamy  gloom  ; 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom,  upon  the 
bowers ; 
The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds 
night  by  night ; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flow- 
ers, 
Sailed  slowly  bj',  passed  noiseless  out 
of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air. 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon 

the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  Year  stood 

there 

Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch  ; 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene. 
The  white-haired  matron  with  monoto- 
nous tread, 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joy- 
less mien. 
Sat,  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying 
thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow,  —  he  had  walked 
with  her. 
Oft  supped  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen 
crust ; 
And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  he  heard  the 
stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing   in    the 
dust. 


280 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


AVhile  yet  her  clipck  was  bright  with 
suiiiiucr  bloom, 
Her  coiuitiv  suimnoned  and  she  gave 
her  alf; 
And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable 
plume,  — 
Regave  the swoids  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Kegave  the  swords, — but  not  the  hand 
that  drew 

Ami  struck  for  Liberty  its  dying  blo'w, 
Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel 

went  on. 

Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  butnotloud,  fliememoryof  thegone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and 

trenmlous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped  :  her  head 
was  boweil ; 
Life  dropt  the  distaff  through  his  hands 
serene ; 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  care- 
ful shroud. 
While   deatli    and  winter   closed   the 
autumn  scene. 


JEAN  INGELOW. 

THE  HIGH   TIDE   ON    THE  COAST   OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 
Tlie  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three; 

"  Pull,  if  ye  never  puUed  before  ; 
Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,  "quoth  he. 

"  I'iay  uppr,  i>l;iy  uppe,  0  Boston  bells! 

Ply  all  your  cliiinges,  all  your  swells, 

J'lay  uppe  'The  iJiides  of  Enderby.'" 

Jlen  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  he  knows  all ; 
15  it  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 

Tlie  message  that  tlu^  hells  let  fall  : 
Ami  there  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 
The  Mights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 
By   millions  crouched    on   the  old    sea- 
wall. 


I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  otf,   1   raised  myne 
eyes ; 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore. 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 
And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth. 
My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

''  Cu.sha  !  Cusha !  Cusha  1  "  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"Cusha!  Cusha!"  all  along; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  lloweth, 

Floweth,  fioweth. 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha  !"  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soon  be  falling; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Comme  uppe   Whitefoot,   come  up[)e 

Lightfoot, 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 
Come    uppe    Whitefoot,    come    ujipe 

Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  niilking-shed." 

If  it  be  long,  aj'e,  long  ago. 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow. 

Swift  as  an  arro^ve,  sharp  and  strong  ; 
And  all  the  aire  it  seemeth  me 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

AUe  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene. 

Save  where  full  fyve  goo<l  miles  away 
The  steeple  towered  from  outtlu^greene., 

And  lo  !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swannerds  where  their  .^edges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  bieath, 
The  slii'pherde  lads  1  heard  afarre. 
And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  downe  that  kvndly  message  free, 
The  "  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby.' 


JEAN    INGELOW. 


281 


Then  some  looked  uppe  into  tlie  sky, 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They    sayde,    "And    why    should    this 
thing  be, 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Euderby  ! 

"For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  ]>yrate  galleys  warping  down  ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  seorpe. 
They    have    not    spared   to   wake   the 
towne ; 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see. 
And  storms  be  none,  and  ])yrates  flee, 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby '  V 

I  looked  without,  and  lo  !  n)y  sonne 
Came  riding  downe   with   might  and 
main, 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on. 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

"Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!" 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"The  olde  sea-wall  (he  eried)  is  downe. 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace. 

And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death: 

"God  save  you,  mother!"   straight  he 
saith ; 

"Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth?" 

"Good  sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away 
With  her  two   bairns  1    marked  her, 
long ; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  jilay 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea. 
To  light,  to  left,  "Ho  Enderby  !" 
They  rang,  "The  Brides  of  Enderby  !" 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For  lo  !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest. 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noise,  loud  ; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud. 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed. 
Shook  all  hertremblingbankesamaine ; 

Then  madly  at  the  eygie's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 


Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and 

rout,  — 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about,  — ■ 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave. 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat. 
Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  our  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

L^pon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night. 
The  noise  of  bells  went  swee]>ing  by: 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon-light 

Stream  from  the  church-tower,  red  and 
high,— 

A  lurid  nuirk  and  dread  to  see ; 

And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  mee. 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor-lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed ; 

And  r — my  sonne  Mas  at  my  side. 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed  : 

And  yet  he  jnoaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death ! 

0  lost!  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter 
deare ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore. 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
The  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass. 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas ! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  me  : 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith). 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

1  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"Cusha,  Cusha,  Cusha!"  calling. 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 

I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"Cusha,  Cusha!"  all  along. 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth  ; 
From  the  meads  where  mclick  groweth. 


282 


SONGS    OF   THKEE    CENTURIES. 


"When  the  water  winding  down 
Onward  Uoweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  .sec  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver ; 
Stand  beside  the  solibing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling, 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  sliore : 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow; 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  u]>pe  Light- 
foot  ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow; 
Come  ujijie  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot ; 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 


SEVEN  TIMES  FOUR. 

MATERNITir. 

Hr.iGH-no  !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 
Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall ! 
"Wlien  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in 

the  grasses. 
And.  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds  slender 

and  small ! 
Here's   two    bonny    boys,    and.    here's 

mother's  own  lasses. 
Eager  to  gather  them  all. 

Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups  t 

^lother  shall  thread  them  a  daisy  chain  ; 

Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge- 
sparrow. 

That  loved  her  brown  little  ones,  loved 
them  full  fain ; 

Sing,  "Heart,  thou  art  wide  though  the 
house  be  but  narrow," 
Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 

Hcigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 
Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and 

they  bow  ; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean  waters. 
And  haply  one  musing  dotli  stand  at  her 

prow. 
0  bonny  brown  sons,  and  0  sweet  little 

daughters, 
Maybe  he  tiiinks  on  you  now. 


Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups  ! 

Fair  yellow  datibdils  stately  and  tall ! 

A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and 
leisure. 

And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  sorrow 
and  thrall  ! 

Send  down  on  their  pleasure  smiles  pass- 
ing its  measure, 
God  that  is  over  us  all ! 


SEVEN  TIMES  SEVEN. 

LONGING    FOR   HOME. 

A  SONG  of  a  boat :  — 
There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow : 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote. 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like 

snow. 
Arid  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze 
would  blow, 
And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 

I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a  boat 

Went  curtsying  over  the  billow, 
I  marked  her  coui'se  till,  a  dancing  mote, 
She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam, 
And  I  stayed  behind  in  the  dear-loved 
home ; 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about  the 
boat, 
And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat. 

For  it  is  but  short :  — 
My  boat  you  shall  find  none  fairer  afloat, 
,     In  river  or  port. 
Long  I  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore. 

On  the  open  desolate  sea. 
And  I  think  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly 
shore. 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me  — 

Ah  me ! 

A  song  of  a  nest  :  — 
There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow  ; 
Down   in   the    mosses    and    knot-grass 

pressed. 
Soft  and  warm  and  full  to  the  brim. 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim. 
With  buttercup-buds  to  follow. 

I  pray  yon  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long  : 
You  shall  never  ligiit  in  a  summer  quest 

The  bushes  among,  — 


THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICH. 


283 


Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 
A  fairer  nestt'ul,  nor  ever  know 

A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 
That  wind-like  did  cohie  and  go. 

I  had  a  nestt'ul  once  of  my  own, 

Ah,  ha|>j)}',  hapj)y  I ! 
Right  dearly  1    loved    them ;  hut   when 
they  were  grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly. 
0,  one  after  one  they  Hew  away, 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue. 
To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day, 

And  —  I  wish  1  was  going  too. 

I  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me. 

My  eni^rty  nest? 
And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to 
-    _        see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor  yet. 

Though  my  good  man  has  sailed  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was 
set, 

Now  all  its  hope  hath  failed  ? 

Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went, 
And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be : 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts 
are  sent. 
The  only  home  for  me — 

Ah  me! 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 
A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 

Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 
Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swampsand  dismal  fens, — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers. 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea. 

To   s})rinkle   them   over  the  land  in 
showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars 
showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber 
grain 
Shrunk  in  the  wind,  — and  the  lightning 
now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain  ! 


AFTER  THE  RAIN. 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 


From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye  : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  square  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck : 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


PISCATAQUA  RIVER. 

Thou  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods,  and  fields  of  corn. 

Thou  singest,  and  the  heaven  smiles 
Upon  iny  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  viigue  unrest. 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast ! 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
And,  wrapt  in  dreamy  joy. 

Dip,  and  surge  idl}'  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy ; 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores ; 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down. 

And  with  its  ])arting  tires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 

And  burn  the  tapering  spires  ; 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white. 

And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

0  Uiver  !  flowing  to  the  main 

Through  woods,  and  fields  of  corn. 


284 


SONGS    OF   TIlPwEE    CENTURIES. 


Hear  tlion  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn ; 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  crags  where  I  ani  known  ! 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 


THE  GREEN  GNOME. 

A   MELODY. 

Ring,  sing!  ring,  sing!  pleasant  Sabbath 
bells ! 

Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  through 
dales  and  dells  ! 

Rhyme,  ring !  chime,  sing !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Chime,  sing!  rhyme,  ring!  over  fields 
and  lells ! 


And  I  galloped  and  I  galloped  on  my 

palfrey  white  as  milk, 
!My  robe  was  of  the  sea-green  woof,  my 

serk  was  of  the  silk  ; 
My  hair  was  golden-yellow,  and  it  floated 

to  my  shoe ; 
My  eyes  weie  like  two  harebells  bathed 

in  little  drops  of  dew ; 
My  palfrey,  never  stopping,  made  a  music 

sweetly  blent 
With  the  leaves  of  autumn  dropping  all 

around  me  as  I  went ; 
And  I  heard  the  bells,  grown  fainter,  far 

behind  me  peal  and  play. 
Fainter,  fainter,  fainter,  till  they  seemed 

to  die  away ; 
And    beside  a  silver  runnel,  on  a  little 

heap  of  sand, 
I  saw  the  green  gnome  sitting,  with  his 

cheek  upon  his  hand. 
Then  he  started  up  to  see  me,  and  he  ran 

with  a  cry  and  bound, 
And  drew  nic  fiom  my  paltVcy  white  and 

set  me  on  the  ground. 
O  crimson,  crimson  were  his  locks,  his 

face  was  green  to  .see, 
Hut  he  cried,  "O  light-haired  las.sie,  you 

are  bound  to  many  me!" 
He  clasped  me  round  the  middle  small, 

he  kissed  me  ou  the  check, 


He  kissed  me  once,  he  ki.ssed  me  twice, 

I  could  not  stir  or  speak ; 
He  kissed  me  twice,  he  kissed  me  thrice ; 

but  wheii  he  kissed  again, 
I  called  aloud  upon  the  name  of  Hinr 

who  died  for  men. 

Sing,  sing !  ring,  ring  !  pleasant  Sabbath 
bells! 

Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme !  through 
dales  and  dells ! 

Rhyme,  ring !  chime,  sing !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Chime,  sing !  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields 
and  fells ! 

0  faintly,  faintly,  faintly,  calling  men  and 

maids  to  pray. 
So  faintly,  faintly,  taiutly  rang  the  bells 

far  away ; 
And  as  1  named  the  Blessed  Name,  as  in 

our  need  we  can, 
The  ugly  green  gnome  became  a  tall  and 

comely  man  : 
His  hands  were  white,  his  beard  was  gold, 

his  eyes  were  black  as  sloes. 
His  tunic  was  of  scarlet  woof,  and  silken 

were  his  hose ; 
A  pensive  light  from  faeryland  still  lin- 
gered on  his  cheek. 
His   voice  was  like  the  running  brook 

when  he  began  to  speak  : 
"0,  you  have  cast  away  the  charm  my 

step-dame  put  on  me. 
Seven  years  have  I  dwelt  in  Faeryland, 

and  you  have  set  me  free. 
0,  I  will  niount  thy  ])alfrey  white,  and 

ride  to  kirk  witli  thee. 
And,  by  those  dewy  little  eyes,  we  twain 

will  wedded  be!" 

Back  we  galloped,  never  .stopping,  he 
before  and  I  behind. 

And  the  autumn  leaves  were  dropping, 
red  and  yellow  in  the  wind ; 

And  the  sun  was  shining  clearer,  and  my 
heart  was  high  and  pioud. 

As  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  rang  the  kirk- 
bells  sweet  and  loud. 

And  we  saw  the  kirk,  before  us,  as  we 
trotted  down  the  fells. 

And   nearer,   clearer,  o'er   u.s,  rang  the 

welcome  of  the  bells.  '  » 

Ring,  sing !  ring,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath 

bells ! 
Chime,  ihyme !  cliime,  rhyme!  through 

dales  and  dells ! 


E.    C.    STEDMAN. 


285 


Rhyme,  ring !  chime,  sing !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Chime,  sing!  rhyme,  ring!  over  fields 
and  i'ells ! 


E.  C.  STEDMAN. 

[U.  S.  A.] 

THE  DOORSTEP. 

The  conference-meeting  through  at  last, 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 

To  see  the  girls  ('onie  tri])iiiiig  past, 
Like  snowbirds  willing  to  be  mated. 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 
By  level  musket-Hashes  litten. 

Than  1,  who  stepped  before  tiiem  all, 
Who  longed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 

But  no ;  she  blushed,  and  took  my  arm  ! 

We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway, 
And  started  toward  the  Majde  Farm 

Along  a  kind  of  lovei's  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 

'T  was  nothing  woi-th  a  song  or  story. 

Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed,  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet. 
The   moon   was   full,  the    fields  were 
gleaming ; 
By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet. 
Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was 
beaming. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff — 
0  sculptor,  if  you  could  butmouldit !  — 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  1  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone, — 
'T  was   love   and    fear    and    triumph 
blended. 

At  last  we  reached  the  foot-worn  stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home; 

Her  diinjiled  hand  the  latches  fingered. 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 

Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lingered. 


She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood. 
And  with  a  "Thank  you,  Ned,"  dis- 
sembled ; 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 

With  what  a  daring  wish  1  trembled. 

A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead. 

The  moon  was  slyly  jieeping  through  it. 

Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 

"Come,  now  or  never  !  do  it !  do  it!" 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 

But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 

Sweet,  rosy,  darling  moutii,  —  I  kissed 
her ! 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  love,  yet  still, 

0  listless  woman,  weary  lover ! 
To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill  , 
But  who  can  live  youth 
over  ? 


1  'd  give  — 


PAN  IS  WALL  STREET. 

A.  D.  1867. 

JiTST  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 

Looks  over  AVall  Street's  mingled  na- 
tions, — 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quota- 
tions, — 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people. 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple ; — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  ham- 
mer,— 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways. 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  nullions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude. 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar : 
One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan'.s-])ipe  (fashioned 
Like  those  of  old)  to  li|)s  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impas- 
sioned. 


286 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


'T  was  Pail  himsplf  had  waiidcMPtl  here 

A-stroUiiiii  tliroiigli  this  sordid  city, 
Aiil  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  jiastoral  ditty ! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas,  — 

From  liaunts  of  shcplurd,  nym]ili,  and 
satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times, — to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head : 

But  —  hidden     thus  —  there    -was    no 
douViting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 
His  gnarled    horns   were    somewhere 
sprouting ; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 
Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you 
see  them. 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 
Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath 
them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound. 
And    o'er    his  mouth   their   changes 
shifted. 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 
Wheie'er  the  i)assing  current  drifted; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  lienlsmen  ran  to  hear 
him, 
Even  now  the  tradesman  from  their  tills. 
With  clerks  ami  ])oiters,  crowded  near 
him. 

The  hulls  and  hears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New'  Street 
Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true. 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley ; 
The  random  ]nss2rs  stayed  to  list,  — 

A  boxer  -flgon,  rough  and  merry, — 
A  Hroadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Xais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern. 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng,  — 

A  blowsy,  api>le-vending  slattern  ; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From   some  new-fangled  lunch-house 
handy. 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper : 


His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  taway  legs  were  liaie  and  taper; 

And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 
Andgave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 

While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 
His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

0  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught 
her,  — 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water  ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals. 
But  JIusic  waves  eternal  wands,  — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals  ! 

So  thought  I,  —  but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton. 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod. 

And  pushed  hiin  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"Great  Pan  is  dead!."— aiid  all  the 
people 
"Went  on  theirways :  —  and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 


ALGEPtXON    CHAELES 
SWINBUENE. 

A  MATCH. 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 

Our  lives  would  grow  together 

In  sad  or  singing  weather, 

Blown  fields  or  ilowerful  closes. 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief; 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 
And  I  w-ere  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 

And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
"With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon  ; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  ai'e 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 

And  I  your  love  were  death, 
"We  'd  shine  and  snow  together 
Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 


E.    H.    STODDARD.  —  J.    T.    TROWBRIDGE. 


287 


With  daffodil  and  starling 
And  lidurs  ot"  IVuittul  bruath  ; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  1  j'our  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  1  were  page  to  joy, 
We  'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons. 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons, 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow. 

And  laughs  of  maiil  and  boy ; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 

And  1  were  Jiage  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady. 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We  'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours, 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers. 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady, 

And  night  were  bright  like  day ; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We  'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Plnck  out  his  flying-feather. 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure. 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein ; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


R.  H.  STODDARD. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

NEVER  AGAIN. 

TliERK  are  gains  for  all  our  losses. 

There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain  : 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts. 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better. 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign  : 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 
And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain  : 

We  seek  it  everywhere. 

On  the  earth  and  in  the  air. 
But  it  never  comes  again  ! 


LANDWARD. 

The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea, 
The  sea  is  sown  with  lain. 

And  in  the  passing  gusts  we  hear 
The  clanging  of  the  crane. 

The  cranes  are  flying  to  the  south  ; 

We  cut  the  northern  foam : 
The  dreary  land  they  leave  behind 

Must  be  our  future  home. 

Its  barren  shores  aie  long  and  dark, 
And  gray  its  autumn  sky  ; 

But  better  these  than  this  gray  sea. 
If  but  to  land  —  and  die  ! 


NOVEMBER. 

The  wild  November  comes  at  last 

Beneath  a  veil  of  rain  ; 
The  night-wind  blows  its  folds  aside, 

Her  face  is  full  of  jjain. 

The  latest  of  her  race,  she  takes 
The  Autumn's  vacant  throne  : 
She  has  liut  one  short  moon  to  live. 
And  she  must  live  alone. 

A  barren  realm  of  withered  fields  : 
Bleak  woods  of  fallen  leaves  : 

The  palest  morns  that  ever  dawned  : 
The  dreariest  of  eves : 

It  is  no  wonder  that  she  comes. 
Poor  month  !  with  tears  of  pain  : 

For  what  can  one  so  hopeless  do 
But  weep,  and  weep  again  ! 


J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE. 

[U.    S.     A.] 

AT  SEA. 

The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade. 

For  silence,  and  for  sleep; 
And  when  I  was  a  child,  I  laid 
My  hands  upon  my  breast,  and  prayed, 

And  sank  to  slumbers  deep. 
Childlike,  as  then,  I  lie  to-night. 
And  watch  my  lonely  cabin-light. 


288 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Each  movpineiit  of  the  swaying  lamp 

Sliows  how  the  vessel  reels, 
And  o'er  her  deck  the  billows  tramp, 
And  all  her  timbers  strain  and  cramp 

With  every  shock  she  feels ; 
It  starts  and  shudders,  while  it  burns, 
And  in  its  hinged  socket  turns. 

Jsow  swinging  slow,  and  slanting  low, 

It  almost  level  lies  : 
And  yet  I  know,  while  to  and  fro 
1  watch  the  seeming  pendule  go 

With  restless  fall  and  rise. 
The  steady  shaft  is  still  upright, 
Poising  its  little  globe  of  light. 

0  hand  of  God  !     0  lamp  of  peace  ! 
0  promise  of  my  soul ! 

Though  weak  and  tossed,  and  ill  at  ease 
Amid  the  roar  of  smiting  seas,  — - 
The  ship's  convulsive  roll, — 

1  own,  with  love  and  tender  awe, 
Yon  perfect  type  of  faith  and  law. 

A  heavenly  trust  my  spirit  calms,  — 
My  soul  is  filled  with  liglit ; 

Tlie  ocean  sings  his  solemn  psalms; 

The  wild  winds  chant ;  I  cross  my  palms ; 
Happy,  as  if  to-night. 

Under  the  cottage  roof  again, 

I  heard  the  soothing  summer  rain. 


ELIZABETH    AKERS    ALLEN 
(FLOltENCE  PEPtCY). 

[u.  s.  a] 
IN  THE  DEFENCES. 

AT   WASHINGTON. 

A[,ONG  the  ramparts  which  surround  the 
town 
I  walk  with  evening,  marking  all  the 
while 
How  night  and   autumn,  closing  softly 
down. 
Leave  on  the  land  a  blessing  and   a 
smile. 

In  the  broad  streets  the  sounds  of  tumult 
cease, 
The  gorgeous  sunset  reddens  roof  and 
spire, 


The  city  sinks  to  quietude  and  peace, 
Sleeping,  like  Saturn,  in  a  ring  of  fire.; 

Circled  with  forts,  whose  grim  and  threat- 
ening walls 
Frown  black  with  cannon,  whose  abated 
breath 
Waits  the  command  to  send  the  fatal  balls 
Upon  theirerrandsof  dismay  and  death. 

And  see,  directing,  guiding,  silently- 
Flash  from  afar  the  mystic  signal-lights. 

As  gleamed  the  fiery  pillar  in  the  sky 
LeatUng  by  night  the  wandering  Israel- 
ites. 

The    earthworks,  draped    with   summer 
weeds  and  vines, 
The  riHe-pits,  half  hid   with  tangled 
briers, 
But  wait  their  time ;  for  see,  along  the 
lines 
Else   the    faint   smokes   of    lonesome 
picket-lires. 

Where  sturdy  sentinels  on  silent  heat 
Cheat  the  long  hours  of  wakeful  lone- 
liness 
With  thoughts  of  home,  and  faces  dear 
and  sweet. 
And,  on  the  edge  of  danger,  dream  of 
bliss. 

Yetataword,  how  wildand fierce  achange 
Would  rend  and  starthi  all  the  earth 
and  skies 
With  blinding  glare,  and  noises   dread 
and  strange. 
And  shrieks,  and  shouts,  and. deathly 
agonies. 

The  wide-mouthed  guns  would  war,  and 
hissing  shells 
Would  pierce  the  shuddering  sky  with 
fiery  thrills. 
The  battle  rage  and  roll  in  thunderous 
swells, 
And    war's  fierce  anguish  shake  the 
solid  hills. 

But  now  how  tranquilly  the  golden  gloom 
Creeps  up  the  gorgeous  forest-slopes, 
and  flows 
Down   valleys   blue   with    fringy  aster- 
i  bloom, — 

I      An  atmosphere  of  safety  and  repose. 


EDXA   DEAN    PROCTOR. 


289 


Against  the  sunset  lie  the  darkeninghills, 
Mushroomed  with    tents,  the   sudden 
growth  of  war ; 
Tlie  frosty  autumn  air,  tliat  blights  and 
chills. 
Yet   brings  its  own   full   recompense 
therefor ; 

Rich  colors  light  the  leafy  solitudes, 

And  far  and  near  the  gazer's  eyes  behold 
The  oak's  deep  scarlet,  warming  all  the 
woods, 
And     spendthrift    majiles    scattering 
their  gold. 

The  pale  beech  shivers   with   prophetic 
woe, 
The    towering   chestnut   ranks   stand 
blanched  and  thinned. 
Yet  still  the  fearless  sumach  dares  the  foe. 
And  waves  its  bloody  guidons  in  the 
wind. 

"Where  mellow  haze  the  hill's  sharji  out- 
line dims. 

Bare  elms,  like  sentinels,  watch  silently. 
The  delicate  tracery  of  their  slender  limbs 

Pencilled  in  purple  on  the  salfron  sky. 

Content  and  quietude  and  plentj'  seem 
Blessing  the  place,  and  sanctifying  all ; 

Andhark  !  liowpleasantlyahiddenstream 
Sweetens  the  silence  with  its  silver  fall ! 

The  failing  grasshopper  cliirps  faint  and 
shrill, 
The  cricket  calls,  in  massy  covert  hid. 
Cheery  and   loud,  as  stoutly  answering 
still 
The  soft  persistence  of  tlie  katydid. 

With  dead  moths  tangled  in  its  blighted 
bloom. 
The  golden-rod  swings  lonesome  on  its 
throne, 
Forgotof  bees ;  and  in  thethicket'sgloom. 
The  last  belated  peewee  cries  alone. 

The  hum  of  voices,  and  the  careless  laugh 
Of  cheerful  talkers,  fall  upon  the  ear; 

The  flag  flaps  listlessly  adown  its  staff; 
And  still  the  katydid  pipes  loud  and 
near. 

And  now  from  far  the  bugle's  mellow 
thioat  i 

Pours  out,  in  rippling  flow,  its  ^silver 
tide ;  1 

19 


And  up  the  listening  hills  the  echoes  float 
Faint    and    more    faint    and    sweetly 
multiplied. 

Peace  reigns  ;  not  now  a  soft-eyed  nymph 
that  sleeps 
Unvexed  by  dreams  of  strife  or  con- 
queror. 
But  Power,  that,  open-eyed  and  watchful, 
keeps 
Unwearied  vigil  on  the  brink  of  war. 

Night  falls ;  in  silence  .sleep  the  patriot 
bands ; 
The  tireless  cricket  yet  repeats  its  tunc. 
And  the  still  figure  of  the  sentry  stands 
In  i)lack  relief  against  the  low   full 
moon. 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 

[v.    S.    A.] 

OUR  HEROES. 

The  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 
Have  died  by  Neptune's  ruined  shrines. 
And  her  hull  is  the  drift  of  the  deep  sea 

floor. 
Though  shaped  of  Pelion's  tallest  pines. 
You  may  seek  her  crew  in  every  isle. 
Fair  in  the  foam  of  iEgean  seas. 
But  out  of  thfir  sleep  no  charm  can  wile 
Jason  and  Orpheus  and  Hercules. 

And  Priam's  voice  is  heard  no  more 
B}'  windy  Ilium's  sea-built  walls; 
From  the  washing  wave  and  the  lonely 

shore 
No  wail  goes  up  as  Hector  falls. 
On  Ilia's  mount  is  the  shining  snow. 
But  Jove  has  gone  from  its  brow  away, 
And  red  on  the  plain  the  popjiies  grow 
Where  Greek  and  Trojan  fouglit  that  day. 

Mother  Earth  !     Are  thy  heroes  dead  ? 
Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years  no 

more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  poppies 

red 
All  that  is  left  of  the  brave  of  yore  ? 
Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus  fought. 
Far  in  the  young  world's  misty  dawn  ? 
Orteachasthegray-haired  Nestor  taught, 
Mother  Eartli !     Are  thy  heroes  gone? 


290 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Gone? — in  a  nobler  form  tlipy  rise  ; 
Dead? — we  may  clasp  their  hands  in  ours, 
And  catch  the  light  of  their  glorious  ej^es, 
And  wreathe  their  brows  with  iinnKutal 

flowers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  is  done, 
There  are  the  souls  of  our  heroes  stin'ed; 
Wherever  a  field  for  truth  is  won, 
Tiiere  are  our  heroes'  voices  heard. 

Their  armor  rings  on  a  fairer  field 

Tlian  Greek  or  Trojan  ever  trod. 

For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they 

wield. 
And  the  light  above  them  the  smile  of 

God ! 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 
Jason  may  dream  the  years  away, 
But  the  heroes  live,  and  the  skies   are 

briglit. 
And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day. 


GEORGE  H.  BOKER. 

[v.    S.    A.] 

DIRGE  FOR  A  SOLDIER. 

Closr  his  eyes ;  his  work  is  done  ! 

What  to  hiui  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun. 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?  he  cannot  know : 
Lay  him  low  ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Pioved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forevei-  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
1 71  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
Wliat  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  lire  the  volley! 
Wliiit  to  him  are  all  our  wars. 

What  but  death-bemocking  folly? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 


Leave  him  to  God's  watcliing  eye. 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by: 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
Wiiat  cares  he?  he  cannot  know: 
Lay  him  low ! 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 


[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  MEADOW. 

It  .stands  in  a  sunny  meadow. 
The  house  so  mossy  and  brown. 

With  its  cumbrous  old  stone  chimneys, 
And  the  gray  roof  sloping  down. 

The  trees  fold  their  green  arms  round  it,  — 

The  trees  a  century  old  ; 
And   the    winds    go    chanting    through 
them. 

And  the  sunbeams  drop  their  gold. 

The  cowslips  spring  in  the  marshes, 

The  roses  bloom  on  the  hill. 
And  beside  the  brook  in  the  pasture 

The  herds  go  feeding  at  will. 

Within,  in  the  wide  old  kitchin, 

The  old  folks  sit  in  the  sun. 
That  creeps  through  the  sheltering  Avood- 
bine. 

Till  the  day  is  almost  done. 

Their  children  have  gone  and  left  them  ; 

They  sit  in  the  sun  alone ! 
And  the  old  wife's  ears  are  failing 

As  she  harks  to  the  well-known  tone 

That  won  her  heart  in  her  girlhood. 
That  has  soothed  her  in  many  a  care. 

And  praises  her  now  for  the  brightness 
Her  old  face  used  to  wear. 

She  thinks  again  of  her  bridal,  — 
How,  dressed  in  her  robe  of  white, 

She  stood  by  her  gay  young  lover 
In  the  morning's  ros}'  light. 

0,  the  morning  is  rosy  as  ever. 

But  the  rose  from  her  cheek  is  fled ; 


NORA   PERKY. 


291 


And  the  sunshine  still  is  golden, 
But  it  falls  on  a  silvered  head. 

And  the  girlhood  dreams,  once  vanished, 
Come  back  in  her  winter-time. 

Till  lier  feeble  pulses  tremble 

With  the  thrill  of  spring-time'.s  prime. 

And  looking  forth  from  the  window, 
8he  thinks  how  the  trees  have  grown 

Since,  clad  in  her  bridal  whiteness, 
She  crossed  the  old  door-stone. 

Though  dimmed  her  ej'es'  bright  azure. 
And  dimmed  her  hair's  young  gold, 

The  love  in  her  girlhood  plighted 
Has  never  grown  dim  or  old. 

They  sat  in  peace  in  the  sunshine 
Till  the  day  was  almost  done, 

And  then,  at  its  close,  an  angel 
Stole  over  the  threshold  stone. 

He  folded  their  hands  together,  — 
He  touched  their  eyelids  with  balm, 

And  their  last  breath  floated  outward. 
Like  the  close  of  a  solemn  ])salm  ! 

Like  a  bridal  pair  they  traversed 

The  unseen,  mvstical  road 
That  leads  to  the"  Beautiful  City, 

Whose  builder  and  maker  is  God. 

Perhaps  in  that  miracle  country 
They  will  give  her  lost  youth  back. 

And  the  flowers  of  the  vanished  spring- 
time 
Will  bloom  in  the  spirit's  track. 

One  draught  from  the  living  waters 

Shall  call  back  his  manhood's  prime ; 
And  eternal  years  shall  measure 
'i  The  love  that  outlasted  time. 

But  the  shajK's  that  they  left  behind  them. 
The  wrinkles  and  silver  hair,  — 

Made  holy  to  us  by  the  kisses 
The  angel  had  printed  there,  — 

We  will  hide  away  'neath  the  willows, 
Wlien  the  (lay  is  low  in  the  west, 

Where  the  sunVieams  cannot  find  them, 
Nor  the  winds  distuib  their  rest. 

And  we  '11  suffer  no  telltale  tombstone. 
With  its  age  and  date,  to  lise 

O'ei'  the  two  who  are  old  no  longer. 
In  the  Father's  house  in  the  skies. 


THE  LATE  SPRING. 

She  .stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields,  — 
Brown,  sodden  fields,  all  desolate  and 
bare. 
"The  Sluing  is  late,"   she  said,    "  the 
faithless  spring. 
That  should  have  come  to  make  the 
meadows  fair. 

"Their  sweet  South  left  too  soon,  among 
the  trees 
The  birds,  bewildered,  flutter  to  and 
fro  ; 
For  them  no  green  boughs  wait,  —  their 
memories 
Of  last  year's  April  had  deceived  them 
so." 

She   watched    the   homeless   birds,    the 
.slew,  sad  spring. 
The  barren  fields,  and  shivering,  naked 
trees. 
"Thus  God  has  dealt  with  me,  his  child," 
she  saitl ; 
"  I  wait  my  spring-time,  and  am  cold 
like  these. 

"To  them  will  come  the  fulness  of  their 
time  ; 
Their  spring,  though  late,  will  make 
the  meadows  fair; 
Shall  L  ^\'lio  wait  like  them,  like  them 
be  blessed  ? 
I  am  His  own,  —  doth  not  mv  Father 
care?" 


NORA  PERRY. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

IN  JUNE. 

So   sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses   in    their 
blowing. 
So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair  to  see ; 
So   blithe   and   gay  the    humming-biid 
agoing 
From  Hower  to  flower,  a  hunting  with 
the  bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet   the   calling   of  the 
thrushes. 
The    calling,   cooing,    wooing,   every- 
where ; 


292 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


So  sweet  the  water's  song  through  reeds 
and  ruslies, 
The   plover's   piping  note,  now  here, 
now  there. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  from  off  the  fiehls  of 
clover. 
The  west-wind   blowing,  blowing   up 
the  hill; 
So  sweet,  so  sweet  with  news  of  some 
one's  lover, 
Fleet  footsteps,  ringing  nearer,  nearer 
still. 

So    near,   so    near,   now   listen,   listen, 
thrushes ; 
Now  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and   let 
me  hear  ; 
And,  water,  hush  your  song  through  reeds 
and  rushes, 
That  I  may  know  whose  lover  cometh 
near. 

So  loud,  so  loud  the  thrushes  kept  their 
calling, 
Plover  or  blackbird  never  heedinc;  me  ; 
So  loud  the  mill-stream  too  kept  Iretting, 
falling, 
O'er  bar  and  bank,  in  brawling,  bois- 
terous glee. 

So  loud,  so  loud;  yet  blackbird,  thrush, 
nor  plover. 
Nor  noisy  mill-stream,  in  its  fret  and 
fall, 
Could  drown  the  voice,  the  low  voice  of 
my  lover, 
My  lover  calling  through  the  thrushes' 
call. 

"Come  down,  come  down!"  he  called, 
and  straight  the  thrushes 
From  mate  to  mate  sang  all  at  once, 
"Come  down  I" 
And  while  the  water  laughed   through 
reeds  and  rushes. 
The    blackbiril     chirped,    the    plover 
pil)ed,   "Come  down  !" 

Then  down    and   off,  and    through   the 
ticlds  of  clover, 
I  followed,  followed,  at  my  lover's  call ; 
Listening  no  more  to  blacklnrd,  thrush, 
or  plover. 
The  water's  hnigh,   the    mill-stream's 
fret  and  fall. 


AFTER  THE  BALL. 

They  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair, 
Tiieir  long,  brigiit  tresses,  one  by  one,. 

As  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the  cham- 
ber there. 
After  the  revel  was  done. 

Idly  they  talked  of  waltz  and  quadrille. 
Idly  they  laughed,  like  other  girls. 

Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 
Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

Kobe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 
Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons,  too. 

Scattered  about  in  every  place, 
For  the  revel  is  through. 

And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white. 
The  prettiest  nightgowns  under  the  sun, 

Stockingless,  sli]iperless,  sit  in  the  night. 
For  the  revel  is  done, — 

Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair. 

Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown  and 
gold,  _ 

Till  the  lire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there. 
And  the  little  bare  feet  are  cold. 

Then  out  of  the  gathering  winter  chill, 
All  o'.it  of  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather, 

AVhiJe  the  fire  is  out  and  the  house  is  still, 
I.Iaiul  anil  Madge  together, — ■ 

Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
Th'.ipi-ettii'st  nightgowns  11  ndertliesnn. 

Curtained  away  from  the  chilly  night, 
Attcv  the  ravel  is  done, — 

Float  along  ia  a  splendid  dieam. 
To  a  golden  gitteru's  tinkling  tune, 

"While   a   thousand   lustres   shimmering 
stream 
In  a  palace's  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of  jewels  and  flutter  of  laces, 
Trojiical  odors  sweeter  than  nuisk. 

Men  and  women  with  beautiful  faces, 
And  eyes  of  tropical  dusk, — 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star. 
One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of  each, 

And  one  voice,  sweeter  than  otheis  are. 
Breaking  into  silvery  speech,  — 

Telling,  through  lips  of  bearded  bloom, 
An  old,  old  story  over  again, 


G.    W.    THORNBURY. 


293 


As  down  the  royal  bannered  room, 
To  the  golden  gittern's  strain, 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk, 
Wliile  an  unseen  spirit  walks  beside. 

And  all  unheard  in  the  lovers'  talk. 
He  clainieth  one  for  a  bride. 

0,  Maud  and  Madge,  dream  on  together. 
With  never  a  pang  of  jealous  fear! 

Foi',  ere  the  bitter  St.  Agnes  weather 
Siiall  whiten  another  year, 

■Robed  for  the  bridal,  and  robed  for  the 
tomb, 
Biaided  brown  hair  and  golden  tress. 
There  '11  be  only  one  of  you  left  for  the 
bloom 
Of  the  bearded  lips  to  press,  — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  ])earls. 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, — 
Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 

At  the  sight  of  a  lover's  face. 

O  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal  white, 
For  you  the  revel  has  just  begun  ; 

But  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms  to- 
night 
The  revel  of  Life  is  done  ! 

But  robed  and  crowned  with  your  saintly 
bliss. 

Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the  sun, 
0  beautiful  Maud,  you  '11  never  miss 

The  kisses  another  hath  won  ! 


G.  W.  THOPiNBUPtY. 


THE  JESTER'S   SERMON. 

The  Jester  shook  his  liead  and  bells,  and 

leaped  upon  a  cliair. 
The  pages  laughed,  the  women  screamed, 

and  tossed  their  scented  hair; 
The  falcon  whistled,  staghounds  bayed, 

the  lapdog  barked  without. 
The  scullion  dropjied  the  pitcher  brown, 

the  cook  railed  at  the  lout ! 
The  steward,  counting  out  his  gold,  let 

pouch  and  money  fall. 
And  why?  because  the  Jester  rose  to  say 

grace  in  the  hall ! 


The  page  played  with  the  heron's  plume, 

the  steward  with  his  chain. 
The  butler  drumnu'd  upon  the  board,  and 

laughed  with  might  and  main  ; 
The  grooms  beat  on  their  metal  cans,  and 

roared  till  they  were  red. 
But  still   the  Jester  shut  his  eyes  aTid 

rolled  his  witty  head ; 
And  when  they  grew  a  little  still,  read 

half  a  yard  of  text. 
And,  waving  hand,  struck  on  the  desk, 

then  frowned  like  one  perplexed. 

"Dear    sinners    all,"    the    fool    began, 

"man's  life  is  but  a  jest, 
A  dream,  a  shatlow,  bubble,  air,  a  vapor 

at  the  best. 
In  a  thousand  pounds  of  law  I  find  not 

a  single  ounce  of  love  ; 
A  bliud  man  killed  the  parson's  cow  in 

shooting  at  the  dove  ; 
The  fool  that  eats  till  he  is  sick   nnist 

fast  till  he  is  well ; 
The  wooer  who  can  Hatter  most  will  bear 

away  the  belle. 


"Let  no  man  halloo  he  is  safe  till  he  is 

through  the  wood; 
He  who  will  not  when  he  may,  onust 

tarrj'  when  he  should  ; 
He  who  laiighs  at  crooked  men  should 

need  walk  very  straight; 
0,  he  who  once  has  won  a  name  may  lie 

abed  till  eight ! 
Make  hast<!  to  jmrchase  house  and  land, 

be  very  slow  to  wed ; 
True  coral  needs  no  jiainter's  brush,  nor 

need  be  daubed  with  red. 

"The  friar,  preaching,  cursed  the  thief 

(the  pudding  in  his  sleeve). 
To  fish   for  spiats  with  golden  hooks  is 

foolish,  by  your  leave,  — 
To  travel  well,  — an  iiss's  ears,  ape's  face, 

hog's  mouth,  and  ostrich  legs. 
He  does  not  care  a  pin  for  thieves  who 

limps  about  and  begs. 
Be  always  first  man  at  a  feast  and  last 

man  at  a  fiay  ; 
The  short  way  round,  in  spite  of  all,  is 

still  the  longest  way. 
When  the  hungry  curate  licks  the  knife, 

there  's  not  muc'h  for  the  clerk  ; 
"When  the  pilot,  turning  ])ale  ami   sick, 

looks  up,  — thestornigiowsdark." 


294 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Then  loud  they  laughed,  the  fat  cook's 

tears  ran  down  into  tlie  pan  : 
The  steward  shook,  that  he  was  forced 

to  drop  the  brimming  can  ; 
And  then  again  the  women  screamed, 

and  every  stagliound  bayed, — 
And  why?  because   tlie  motley  fool  so 

wise  a  sermon  made. 


ANNIE  FIELDS. 

(U.    S.    A.] 

CLIMBING. 

He  said,  "O  brother,  where  's  the  use  of 
cliinbing  ? 

Come  rather  to  the  shade  beside  me 
here. 

And  break  the  bread,  and  pour  the  plen- 
teous wine ! 

"Why  thus  forever   climbing  one  sad 

way? 
Rather  burn  cedar  on  the  marble  hearth. 
And  sleep,  and  wake,  and  hear  the  singers 

pass. 

"Come!  Stay  thy  feet,  and  pant  and 
climb  no  more ! 

Stay  Jollity,  stay  Wit,  and  Grace,  and 
Ease, 

Nor  spend  your  strength  of  days  in  scal- 
ing heights!" 

But  Wit  had  clomb  full  well,  and  passed 

beyond. 
While  he  who  stayed,  cried,  "Brother, 

Where's  the  use?" 
And    Jollity   went   mingling   with    the 

sad, 

Still    passing   onward,  up   the    difficult 

road, 
While  Grace  accompanied,  —and  all,  but 

Ease ; 
And  Ease  and  he  two  dull  companions 

made. 

Forever  after  said  he  not,  "What  use  !" 
Grew  weary  of  sweet  cedar  and  soft  couch  ; 
And  wistful  gazed  to  watch  those  climb- 
ing feet. 


HELEN  HUNT. 


[U.    S     A.] 


CORONATION. 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 
Wove  hlmy  yellow  nets  of  sun; 

Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 
The  guards  fell  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate,  unquestioned 
tln-n, 
A   beggar  vent,  and   laughed,  "This 
brings 
Me  chance,  at  last,  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  siit  bowed  beneath  his  crown. 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand ; 

Watching  the  hour-glass  sifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

"Poor  man,  what  wouldst  thou  have  of 
me?" 

The  beggar  turned,  and,  pitying. 
Replied,  like  one  in  a  dream,  "Of  thee, 

Nothing.     1  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown  and  threw  it  by. 

"Oman,  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said, 
"A  greater  king  than  1 !" 

Through  all  the  gates,  unquestioned  then. 
Went  king  and  beggar  liand  in  hand. 

Whispered  the  king,  "Shall  I  know  when 
Before  his  throne  I  stand?  ' 

The  beggar  laughed.  Free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 

The  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced. 
"This  is  his  presence  now." 

At  the  king's  gate,  the  crafty  noon 
Unwove  its  3'ellow  nets  of  sun  ; 

Out  of  tlieir  sleep  in  terror  soon 
The  guanls  waked  one  by  one. 

"Ho  here !  Ho  there !  Has  no  man  seen 
Tlie  king?"    The  cry  ran  to  and  fro; 

Beg':;ar  and  king,  they  laughed,  1  ween. 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  gray: 
The  king  came  not.     They  called  him 
(lead  ; 

And  made  his  eldest  son  om;  day 
Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 


DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI.  —  CELIA   THAXTER, 


295 


THE  WAY  TO   SING. 

The  birds  must  know.    Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  :is  they; 
The  connnon  air  has  generous  wings, 

Songs  make  their  way. 
No  messenger  to  run  before, 

Devising  plan ; 
No  mention  of  the  place  or  hour 

To  any  man ; 
No  waiting  till  some  sound  betrays 

A  listening  ear  ; 
No  diffen^nt  voice,  no  new  delays. 

If  stejjs  draw  near. 

"What  bird  is  that?     Its  song  is  good." 

And  eager  eyes 
Go  peering  through  the  dusky  wood. 

In  glad  surprise  ; 
Then  late  at  night,  when  by  his  fiie 

The  traveller  sits, 
Watchingthe  tlame  grow  brighter,  higher. 

The  sweet  sons?  Hits 
By  snatches  through  his  weary  brain 

To  help  him  rest ; 
When  next  he  goes  that  road  again, 

An  empty  nest 
On  leaHess  bough  will  make  him  sigh, 

"Ah  me  !  last  spiing 
Just  here  I  heard,  in  passing  by. 

That  rare  bird  sing!" 

But  while  he  sighs,  remembering 

How  sweet  the  song, 
The  little  bird,  on  tireless  wing, 

Is  borne  along 
In  other  air,  and  other  men 

With  weary  feet, 
On  other  roads,  the  simple  strain 

Are  finding  sweet. 
The  birds  nmst  know.     Who  wisely  sings 

Will  sing  as  they ; 
The  conmion  air  has  generous  wings, 

Songs  make  their  way. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 

THE  SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime ; 
Time's  self  it  is  made  audible,  — 
The  murmur  of  the  eaith'sown  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 


Is  the  era's  end.     Our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  farther.      Since  time  w.is, 
This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet  which  is  death's,  —  it  hath 
The  niournfulness  of  ancient  life. 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  anil  wrath, 
Its  i)ainful  pulse  is  on  the;  sands. 
Lost  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands 

Gray  and  ziot  known  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea. 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods ; 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 
Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee. 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged 
men 

Surgeand  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 
Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tiee. 


Gather  a  shell  from  the  strewn  beach. 
And  listen  at  its  lijis;  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery. 

The  echo  of  the  wliole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art ; 

And  earth,  sea,  man,  are  all  in  each. 


CELIA  THAXTER. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

A  SUMMER  DAY. 

At  daybreak  in  the  fresh  light,  joyfully 
The  fishermen  drew  in  their  laden  net ; 

The  shon;  shone  rosy  purple,  and  the  sea 
Was  streaked  with  violet. 

And  pink  with  sunrise,  many  a  shadowy 
sail 
Lay  southward,  lighting  up  the  sleep- 
ing bay ; 
And  in  the  west  the  white  moon,  still  and 
pale. 
Faded  before  the  day. 

Silence  was  everywhere.     The  rising  tide 
Slowly  filled  every  cove  and  inlet  small ; 

A  musiital  low  whisper,  multiplied. 
You  heard,  and  that  was  all. 


296 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CEXTUEIES. 


No  clouds  at  dawn,  but  as  the  sun  climbed 
Iiigliei', 
White  columns,  thunderous,  splendid, 
up  the  sky 
Floated  and  stood,  heaped  in  his  steady 
fire, 
A  stately  company. 

Stealing  along  the  coast  from  cape  to  cape 
The  weird  mirage  crept  tremulously  on, 

In  many  a  magic  change  and  wondrous 
shape, 
Throbbing  beneath  the  sun. 

At  noon  the  wind  rose,  swept  the  glassy 
sea 
To  sudden  ripple,  thrust  against  the 
clouds 
A  strenuous  shoulder,  gathering  steadily 
Drove  them  before  in  crowds; 

Till  all  the  west  was  dark,  and  inky  black 
The  level-rulfled  water  underneath, 

Andup  the  wind-cloud  tossed, — aghostly 
rack ,  — 
In  many  a  ragged  wreath. 

Then  sudden  roared  the  thunder,  a  great 
peal 
Magnificent,   that    broke    and    rolled 
away ; 
And  down  tlie  wind  plunged,  like  a  furi- 
ous keel. 
Cleaving  the  sea  to  spray ; 

And  brought  the  rain  sweeping  o'er  land 
and  sea. 
And   then    was    tumult !      Lightning 
sharp  and  keen. 
Thunder,  wind,  rnin, — a  mighty  jubilee 
Tlie  licaven  and  earth  between  ! 

Loud  the  roused  ocean  sang,  a  chorus 
grand ; 

A  solemn  music  rolled  in  undertone 
Of  waves  that  broke  about  on  cither  hand 

The  little  island  lone; 

Wliere,  joyful  in  his  tempest  as  his  calm, 
Held  in  the  hollow  of  that  hand  of  his, 

I  joined  with  heart  and  soul  in  God's 
gi'eat  ])salm. 
Thrilled  with  a  nameless  bliss. 

Soon  lulled  the  wind,  the  summer  storm 
soon  died ; 
The  shattered  clouds  went  eastward, 
drilting  slow ; 


From  the  low  sun  the  rain-fringe  swept 
aside, 
Bright  in  his  rosy  glow, 

And  wide  a  splendor  streamed  through 
all  the  sky ; 
O'er  sea  and  land  one  soft,  delicious 
blush. 
That   touched   the   gray  rocks  lightly, 
tenderly ; 
A  transitory  flush. 

Warm,  odorous  gusts  blew  off  the  distant 
la  ml. 
With  spice  of  pine-woods,  breath  of  hay 
new-mown, 
O'er  miles  of  waves  and  sea-scents  cool 
and  bland, 
Full  in  our  faces  blown. 

Slow  faded  the  sweet  light,  and  peacefully 
The  (]uiet  stars  came  out,  one  after  one  : 

The  holy  twilight  fell  upon  the  sea, 
The  summer  day  was  done. 

Such  unalloyed   delight   its  hours  had 
given. 
Musing,  this  thought  rose  in  my  grate- 
ful mind, 
That  God,  who  watches  all  things,  up  in 
heaven. 
With  patient  eyes  and  kind; 

Saw  and  was  pleased,  perhaps,  one  child 
of  his 
Dared  to  be  happy  like  the  little  birds, 
Because  He  gave  his  children  days  like 
this, 
Rejoicing  beyond  words; 

Dared,  lifting  up  to  Him  untroubled  eyes 
hi  gratitude  that  worship  is,  andpiayei-, 

Sing  and  be  glad  with  ever  new  surprise, 
He  made  his  world  so  fair ! 


SUBMISSION. 

The  sy)aiTow  sits  and  sings,  and  sings; 
Softly  the  sunset's  lingering  light 
Lies  rosy  over  rock  and  turf, 
And  reddens  where  the  restless  surf 
Tosses  on  high  its  plumes  of  white. 

Gejitly  and  clear  the  s])arrow  sings, 
While  twilight  steals  across  the  sea, 


WILLIAM   MORRIS.  —  HARRIET   McEWEN   KIMBALL. 


297 


And  still  and  bright  the  evening  star 
Twinkles  above  the  golden  bar 
Tliat  in  the  west  lies  quietly. 

O,  steadfastly  the  sparrow  sings, 

And  sweet  the  sound ;  and  sweet  the 
touch 
Of  wooing  winds ;  and  sweet  the  sight 
Of  happy  Nature's  deep  delight 
In  her  fair  spring,  desired  so  much  ! 

But  while  so  clear  the  .sparrow  sings 
A  cry  of  death  is  in  my  ear; 

The  Clashing  of  the  riven  wreck, 
Breakers  that  sweep  the  shuddering 
deck, 
And  sounds  of  agony  and  fear. 

How  is  it  that  the  birds  can  sing? 
Life  is  so  full  of  bitter  jjain  ; 

Hearts  are  so  wrung  with  hopeless 

grief; 
Woe  is  so  long  and  joy  so  brief; 
Nor  shall  the  lost  return  again. 

Though  rapturously  the  sparrow  sings, 
No  bliss  of  Nature  can  restore 

The  friends  whose  hands  I  clasped 

so  warm, 
Sweet  souls  that  through  the  night 
and  storm 
Fled  from  the  earth  forevermore. 

Yet  still  the  sparrow  sits  and  sings, 
Till  longing,  mourning,  sorrowing  love. 
Groping  to  find  what  hope  may  be 
Within  death's  awful  mystery. 
Reaches  its  empty  arms  above  ; 

And  listening,  while  the  spaj-row  sings. 
And  soft  the  evening  shadows  fall. 
Sees,   through    the   crowding  tears 

that  blind, 
A  little  light,  and  seems  to  find 
And  clasp  God's  hand,  who  wrought  it 
all. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS. 


MARCH. 

Slayer  of  winter,  art  thou  here  again  ? 
0  welcome,  thou  that  bring'st  the  sum- 
mer nigh ! 


The  bitter  wind  makes  not  thy  victory 

vain. 
Nor  will  we  mock  thee  for  thy  faiut  blue 

sky. 
Welcome,  O  March !  whose  kindly  days 

and  dry 
Make  April  ready  for  the  throstle's  song, 
Thou  first  redresser  of  the  winter's  wrong ! 

Yea,  welcome,  March !  and  though  I  die 

ere  June, 
Yet  for  the  hope  of  life  I  give  thee  praise, 
Striving  to  swell  the  burden  of  the  tune 
That  even  now  I  hear  thy  brown  birds 

raise, 
Unmindful  of  the  past  or  coming  days ; 
Wiu)  sing,  "0  joy  !  a  new  j'ear  is  begun  ! 
What  happiness  to  look  upon  the  sun  !" 

O,  what  begetteth  all  this  storm  of  bliss. 
But  Deathhimself,  who,  crying  solemnly. 
Even  from  the  heart  of  sweet  Forgetful- 

ress. 
Bids  us,  "Rejoice  !  lestpleasurelessyedie. 
Within  a  little  time  must  ye  go  by. 
Stretch  forth  your  open  hands,  and,  Avhile 

ye  live. 
Take  all  the  gifts  that  Death  and  Life 

may  give"? 


HARRIET  McEWEN  KIMBALL. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  CRICKETS. 

Pipe,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year, 

In  gentle  concert  pipe  ! 
Pipe  the  warm  noons ;  the  mellow  har- 
vest near; 

The  apples  dropping  ripe ; 

The  tempered  sunshine,  and  the  softened 
shade ; 
The  trill  of  lonely  bird  ; 
The  sweet,  sad  hush  on  Nature's  glad- 
ness laid ; 
The  sounds  through  silence  heard ! 

Pipe  tenderly  the  passing  of  the  year ; 

The  sunnner's  brief  reprieve  ; 
The  dry  husk  rustling  round  the  yellow 
ear; 

The  chill  of  morn  and  eve ! 


298 


SONGS   OF  THKEE   CENTURIES. 


Pipe  the  untroubled  trouble  of  the  year ; 

Pipe  low  the  painless  pain  ; 
Pipe  your  unceasing  melancholy  cheer; 

The  year  is  in  the  wane. 


ALL'S  WELL. 

The  day  is  ended.     Ere  I  sink  to  sleep, 
My  weary  spirit  seeks  repose  in  thine ; 
Father!  forgive  my  trespasses,  and  keep 
This  little  life  of  mine. 


With  loving-kindness  curtain  thou  my 
bed, 
And  cool  in  rest  my  burning  pilgrim 
feet; 
Thy  pardon  be  the  pillow  for  my  head, — 
So  shall  my  sleep  be  sweet. 


At  peace  with  all  the  world,  dear  Lord, 
and  thee. 
No  fears  my  soul's  unwavering  faith 
can  shake ; 
All 's  well,  whichever  side  the  grave  for 
me 
The  morning  light  may  break  ! 


HARRIET  W.  PRESTON. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  SURVIVORS. 

In  this  sad  hour,  so  still,  so  late, 

When  flowers  are  dead,  and  birds  are 
flown. 

Close-sheltered  from  the  blasts  of  Fate, 
Our  little  love  burns  brightly  on, 

Amiil  the  wrecks  of  dear  desire 

Tliat  ride  the  waves  of  life  no  more ; 

As  stranded  voyagers  light  their  fire 
Upon  a  lonely  island  shore. 

And  though  we  deem  that  soft  and  fair. 
Beyond  the  tempest  and  the  sea. 

Our  h»'art's  true  homes  are  smiling,  where 
In  life  we  never  more  shall  be,  — 


Yet  we  are  saved,  and  we  may  rest ; 

And,  ht-aring  each  the  other's  voice, 
We  cannot  hold  ourselves  unblest. 

Although  we  may  not  quite  rejoice. 

We  '11  warm  our  hearts,  and  softly  sing 
Thanks  for  the  shore  whereon  we  're 
driven ; 
Storm-tossed   no  more,   we  '11   fold   the 
wing, 
And  dream  forgotten  dreams  of  heaven. 


HIRAM  RICH. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

m  THE  SEA. 

The  salt  wind  blows  upon  my  cheek, 

As  it  blew  a  year  ago, 
When  twenty  boats  were  crushed  among 

The  rocks  of  Norman's  Woe. 
'T  was  dark  then  ;  't  is  light  now, 

And  the  sails  are  leaning  low. 

In  dreams,  I  pull  the  sea-weed  o'er. 

And  find  a  face  not  his, 
x\nd  hope  another  tide  will  be 

More  pitying  than  this  : 
The  wind  turns,  the  tide  turns,  — 

They  take  what  hope  there  is. 

My  life  goes  on  as  life  must  go, 
With  all  its  sweetness  spilled : 

My  God,  why  should  one  heart  of  two 
Beat  on,  when  one  is  stilled  ? 

Through  heart-wreck,  or  home-wreck, 
Thy  happy  sparrows  build. 

Though  boats  go  down,  men  build  again 

Whatever  wind  may  blow  ; 
If  bliglit  be  in  the  wheat  one  year, 

They  trust  again,  and  sow. 
Th(>  grief  comes,  the  change  conies, 

The  tides  run  high  or  low. 

Some  have  their  dead,  where,  sweet  and 
calm. 

The  summers  bloom  and  go  ; 
The  sea  withholds  my  dead, — I  walk 

The  bar  when  tides  are  low, 
And  wonder  how  the  grave-grass 

Can  have  the  heart  to  grow  ! 


FRANCIS    BRET   HARTE. 


299 


Flow  on,  0  uTiconsenting  sea, 
Ami  keep  my  dead  below; 

The  night-watch  set  for  me  is  long, 
But,  thiough  it  all,  I  know, 

Or  lite  comes  or  death  comes, 
God  leads  the  eternal  How. 


FRANCIS  BRET  HARTE. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

CONCHA. 

PEESIDIO   DE   SAN    FRANCISCO. 

1800. 

I. 

Looking  seaward,  o'er  the  sand-hills 
stands  the  t'ortres.s,  old  and  (luaiiit. 

By  the  San  Francisco  friars  lifted  to  their 
patron  saint,  — 

Sponsor  to  that  wondrous  city,  now  apos- 
tate to  the  creed, 

On  whose  youthful  walls  the  Padre  saw 
the  angel's  golden  reed  ; 

All  its  trophies  long  since  scattered,  all 
its  blazon  brushed  away. 

And  the  flag  that  flies  above  it  but  a 
triumph  of  to-day. 

Never  scar  of  siege  or  battle  challenges 

the  wandering  eye, — 
Never  breach  of  warlike  onset  holds  the 

curious  passer-by ; 

Only  one  sweet  human  fancy  interweaves 

its  threads  of  gold 
With  the  plain  and  homespun  present, 

and  a  love  that  ne'er  grows  old ; 

Only  one  thing  holds  its  crumbling  walls 
above  the  meaner  dust, — 

Listen  to  the  simjtle  story  of  a  woman's 
love  and  trust. 

II. 

Count  von  Resanofl',  the  Eussian,  envoy 

of  the  mighty  Czar, 
Stood  beside  the  deep  embrasures  where 

the  brazen  cannon  are. 


He  with  grave  provincial  magnates  long 

had  held  serene  debate 
On  the  Treaty  of  Alliance  and  the  high 

att'airs  of  state ; 

He,  from  grave  provincial  magnates,  oft 
had  turned  to  talk  apait 

With  the  Comandante's  daughter,  on  the 
questions  of  the  heart, 

Until  points  of  gravest  import   yielded 

slowly,  one  by  one, 
x\nd  by  Love   was   consummated   what 

Diplomacy  begun ; 

Till  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where 

the  brazen  cannon  are. 
He    received   the   twofold   contract   for 

approval  of  the  Czar ; 

Till  beside  the  brazen  cannon  the  be- 
trothed bade  adieu, 

And,  from  sally-poit  and  gateway,  north 
the  Rus.sian  eagles  tiew. 


III. 

Long  beside  the  deep  embrasures,  where 

the  brazen  cannon  are, 
Did  they  wait  the  jii'omised  bndegi'oom 

and  the  answer  of  the  Czar ; 

Day  by  day  on  wall  and  bastion  beat  the 
hollow  empty  breeze,  — 

Day  by  day  the  sunlight  glittered  on  the 
vacant,  smiling  seas ; 

Week  by  week  the  near  hills  whitened 
in  their  dusty  leather  cloaks,  — 

Week  by  week  the  far  hills  darkened 
from  the  fringing  plain  of  oaks ; 

Till  the  rains  came,  and  far-breaking,  on 
the  fierce  southwester  tost. 

Dashed  the  whole  long  coast  with  color, 
and  then  vanished  and  were  lost. 

So  each  year  the  seasons  shifted ;  wet  and 
warm  and  diear  and  dry ; 

Haifa  )'ear  of  clouds  and  flowers, —  half 
a  year  of  dust  and  sky. 

Still  it  brought  no  ship  nor  message, — 
brought  no  tidings  ill  nor  meet 

For  the  statesmanlike  Commander,  for 
the  daughter  fair  and  sweet. 


r.oo 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Yet  she  heard  the  varj'ing  message, 
voiceh'ss  to  all  ears  beside : 

".He  will  eoirie,"  the  flowers  whispered; 
"Come   no  more,"  the  dry  hills 


sighed. 


Still  she  found  liim  with  the  waters  lifted 
by  th(!  morning  breeze,  — 

Still  she  lost  hiiTi  with  the  folding  of  the 
great  white-tented  seas ; 

Until  hollows  chased  the  dimydes  from 
her  cheeks  of  olive  brown, 

And  at  times  aswit't,  shy  moisture  dragged 
the  long  sweet  lashes  down ; 

Or  the  small  mouth  curved  and  quivered 
as  for  some  denied  caress. 

And  the  fair  young  brow  was  knitted  in 
an  infantine  distress. 

Then  the  grim  Commander,  pacing  where 

the  biazen  cannon  are, 
Comforted  the   maid   with   proverbs, — 

wisdom  gathered  i'roni  afar ; 

Bits  of  ancient  observation  by  his  fathers 

garnered,  each 
jAs  a  pebble  worn  and  i)olished  in  the 

current  of  his  speech : 

"  'Those  who  wait  the  coming  rider  travel 

twice  as  far  as  he ' ; 
.'Tired  wench  and  coming  butter  never 

did  in  time  agree.' 

'"He  that  getteth  himself  lioney,  though 
a  clown,  he  shall  have  Hies'  ; 

'In  the  end  God  grinds  the  miller' ;  'In 
the  dark  the  mole  has  eyes.' 

"  '  He  whose  father  is  Alcalde,  of  his  trial 

hath  no  fear,'  — 
And  be  sure  the  Count  has  reasons  that 

will  make  his  conduct  <dear." 


So  wdth  proverbs  and  caresses,  half  in 
faith  and  half  in  doubt, 

Everv  day  some  hope  was  kindled,  flick- 
ered, faded,  and  went  out. 


IV. 


Yearly,  down  the  hillside  sweeping,  came 
the  stately  cavalcade. 

Bringing  revel  to  vacjuero,  joy  and  com- 
fort to  eaidi  nuud ; 


Bringing  days  of  formal  visit,  social  feast 

and  rustic  sport ; 
Of   bull-baiting    on    the    plaza,  of   love- 

makinar  in  the  court. 


Vainly  then  at  Concha's  lattice, — vain'.y 

as  the  idle  wind 
Rose  the  thin  high  Spanish  tenor  that 

bespoke  the  youth  too  kind; 

Yainly,   leaning   from  their  saddles,  ca- 

balleros,  bolel  and  fleet. 
Plucked  for  her  the  buried  chicken  from 

beneath  their  mustang's  feet ; 

So  in  vain  the  barren  hillsides  with  their 

gay  scrapes  blazed, 
Blazed  and  vanished  in  the  dust-cloud 

that  their  flying  hoofs  had  raised. 

Then  the  drum  called  from  the  rampart, 
and  once  moi'e  with  jiatient  mii'u 

The  Commander  and  his  daughter  each 
took  up  the  dull  routine,  — - 

Each  took  up  the  petty  duties  of  a  life 

apart  and  lone. 
Till  the  slow  years  wrought  a  music  in 

its  drearv  monotone. 


V. 


Tiien  the  voice  sententious  faltered,  and    ^'orty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  swept 

the  wisdom  it  would  teach 
Lost  itself  in  fondest  trifles  of  his  .soft 

Castilian  speech ; 


-And  on  "Concha,"  "Conrhitita,"  and 
"Conchita,"  he  would  dwell 

AVith  the  fond  reiteration  which  the 
Spiiniard  knows  so  well. 


the  hollow  idle  breeze, 
Since  the  Russian  eagle  fluttered   fioin 
the  California  seas. 

Forty  years  on  wall  and  bastion  wrought 
its  slow  liut  sure  decay  ; 

And  Sl^  George's  cross  was  lifted  in  the 
port  of  Monterey. 


FRANCIS    BRET    IIARTE. 


301 


And  the  citadol  vas  lighted,  and  the  liall 

was  gayly  drest, 
All  to  honor  Sir  George  Simpson,  famous 

traveller  and  guest. 

Far  and  near  the  people  gathered  to  the 

costly  banquet  set, 
And  exchanged  congratulation  with  the 

English  baronet; 

Till  the  formal  speeches  ended,  and 
amidst  the  laugh  and  wine 

Some  one  spoke  of  Concha's  lover, — 
heedless  of  the  warning  sign. 

Quickly  then  cried  Sir  George  Simpson  : 
"Speak  no  ill  of  him,  I  pray. 

He  is  dead.  He  died,  poor  fellow,  forty 
years  ago  this  day, 

"Died  while  speeding  home  to  Russia, 
falling  from  a  fractious  horse. 

Left  a  sweetheart  too,  they  tell  me. 
Married,  I  suppose,  of  course  ! 

"  Lives  she  yet  ? "'  A  death-like  silence 
fell  on  br.nqiu't,  guests,  and  hall, 

And  a  trembling  iigure  rising  lixed  the 
awe-struck  gaze  of  all. 

Two  black eyesin  darkened orbitsgleamed 
beneath  the  n\in's  white  hood ; 

Black  serge  hid  the  wasted  figure,  l)owed 
and  stricken  where  it  stood. 

"Lives  she  yet?"  Sir  George  repeated. 

All  were  hushed  as  Concha  drew 
Closer  yet  her   nun's  attire.      "Senor, 

pardon,  she  died  too  !" 


DICKEKS  IN  CAMP. 

Aroye  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly 
drifting. 

The  river  sang  below ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor, 
]iainted 
The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face,  and  form  that  drooped 
and  fainted 
In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ; 


Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant 
treasure 
A  hoarded  volume  drew. 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of 
listless  leisure 
To  hear  the  tale  anew ; 

And    then,  while    round    them    shadows 
gathered  faster. 
And  as  the  firelight  fell. 
He  read   aloud   the   book   wherein    the 
Master 
Had  writ  of  "Little  Nell." 

Perhaps   'twas   boyish  fancy, — for  the 
reader 
Was  youngest  of  them  all, — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and 
cedar 
A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The    fir-trees,    gathering  closer   in    the 
shadows. 
Listened  in  ever}'  spray. 
While  the  whole  caniji,  with  "  Nell  "  on 
English  meadows, 
Wandered  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o'ertaken 
As  by  some  spMl  divine  — 

Their  cares  dropyied  from  them  like  the 
needles  shaken 
From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire  : 
And  he  who  wrought  that  spell? 

Ah,  toweling  jiine,  and  stately  Kentish 
si)ire, 
Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp !  but  let  its  fragrant 
story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thiilis 
With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive 
glorv 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 


And  on  tliat  grave  where  English   oak 
and  holly 
And  lauH'l  wreaths  entwine. 
Deem    it   not   all   a   too   presuni])tuou3 
folly,— 
This  spray  of  Western  pine  ! 


302 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


ANNIE  D.  GREEN  (MAIUAN 
DOUGLAS). 


[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  PURITAN  LOVERS. 

DiiAWN  out,  like  lingering  bees,  to  share 
The  last,  sweet  suniiiier  weather, 

Beneath  the  reddening  maples  walked 
Two  Puritans  together,  — 

A  vouth  and  maiden,  heeding  not 

the" woods  which  round  them  bright- 
ened. 

Just  conscious  of  each  other's  thoughts. 
Half  happy  and  half  frightened. 

Grave  were  their  brows,   and  few  their 
woids. 

And  coarse  their  garb  and  simple ; 
The  maiden's  very  cheek  seemed  shy 

To  own  its  woi-ldly  dimple. 

For  stem   the  time;    they   dwelt   with 
Care ; 

And  Fear  was  oft  a  comer  ; 
A  sober  April  ushered  in 

The  Pilgrim's  toilful  summer. 

And  stern  their  creed  ;  they  tarried  here 
Mere  desert-land  sojourners : 

They  must  not  dream  of  mirth  or  rest, 
God's  humble  lesson-learners. 

The  temple's  sacred  perfume  round 
Their  week-day  robes  was  clinging  ; 

Their  mirth  was  but  the  golden  bells 
On  iiriestly  garments  ringing. 

But  as  to-day  they  softly  talked, 
That  serious  youth  andniaiden. 

Their  |)lainest  words  strange  lieauty  wore, 
Like  weeds  with  dewdrops  laden. 

The  saddest  theme  had  something  sweet. 
The  gravest,  something  tender. 

While  with  slow  steps  they  wandered  on. 
Mill  summer's  fading  splendor. 

He  said,  "Next  week  the  church   will 
hold 

A  day  of  ]irayer  and  fasting"  ; 
And  then  he  stopped,  and  bent  to  pick 

A  white  life-everlasting,  — 


A  silvery  bloom,  with  fadeless  leaves ; 

He  gave  it  to  her,  sighing; 
A  mute  confession  was  his  glance, 

Her  blush  a  mute  replying. 

"Mehetabel !"  (at  last  he  spoke), 
"My  fairest  one  and  dearest ! 

One  thought  is  ever  to  my  heart 
The  sweetest  and  the  nearest. 

"You  read  my  soul ;  you  know  my  wish ; 

0,  grant  me  its  fulhlling ! " 
She  answered  low,  "If  Heaven  smiles, 

And  if  my  father  's  willing  !" 

No  idle  passion  swayed  her  heart, 
t     This  quaint  New  England  beauty! 
Faith  was  the  guardian  of  her  life,  — 
Obedience  was  a  duty. 

Too  truthful  for  reserve,  she  stood, 
H(!r  brown  eyes  earthward  casting, 

And  held  with  trembling  hand  the  while 
Her  white  life-everlasting. 

Her  sober  answer  pleased  the  youth,  — 
Frank,  clear,  and  gravely  cheerful  ; 

He  left  her  at  her  father's  door. 
Too  happy  to  be  fearful. 

She  looked  on  high,,  with  earnest  plea. 
And  Heaven  seemed  bright  above  her ; 

And  when  she  shyly  spoke  his  name. 
Her  father  praised  her  lover. 

And  when,  that  night,  she  sought  her 
couch, 

"With  head-board  high  and  olden. 
Her  prayer  was  praise,  her  ]>illow  down, 

And  all  her  dreams  were  golden. 

And  still  upon  her  throbbing  heart. 
In  bloom  and  breath  undying, 

A  few  life-everlasting  flowers, 
Her  lover's  gift,  were  lying. 

0  Venus"  myrtles,  fresh  and  green  ! 

O  ("upid's  blushing  roses  ! 
Not  on  your  classic  ilowers  alone 

The  sacred  light  reposes ; 

Though  gentler  care  may  shield  your  buds 
Fnim  north-winds  rude  antl  blasting, 

As  dear  to  Love,  those  few,  pale  Ilowers 
Of  white  life-everlasting. 


WILLIAM   D.    IIOWELLS.  —  S.    M.    B:   PIATT. 


303 


WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

BEFORE  THE  GATE. 

They  gave  the  whole  long  day  to  idle 
laughter, 

To  fitful  song  and  jest, 
To  moods  of  soberness  as  idle,  after, 

And  silences,  as  idle  too  as  the  rest. 

But  when  at  last  upon  their  way  return- 
ing. 
Taciturn,  late,  and  loath, 
Through  the  broad  meadow  in  the  sun- 
set burning. 
They  reached  the  gate,  one  fine  spell 
hindered  them  both. 

Her   heart  was  troubled  with  a  subtile 
anguish 
Such  as  but  women  know 
That  wait,  and  lest  love  speak  or  .speak 
not  languish, 
And  what  they  would,  would  rather 
they  would  not  so ;  . 

Till  he  said,  —  man-like  nothing  compre- 
hending 
Of  all  the  wondrous  guile 
That  women  won  win  themselves  with, 
and  bending 
Eyes  of  relentless  asking  on  her  the 
while,  — 

"Ah,  if  beyond  this  gate  the  path  united 

Our  steps  as  far  as  death. 
And  I  might  open  it!  — "     His  voice, 

affrighted 
At   its  own  daring,   faltered  under  his 

breath. 

Then  she — whom  both  his  faith  and  fear 
enchanted 
Far  beyond  words  to  tell. 
Feeling    her    woman's   finest   wit    had 
wanted 
The  art  he  had  that  knew  to  blunder 
so  well  — 

Shyly  drew  near,  a  little  step,  and  mock- 
ing, 
"Shall  we  not  be  too  late 
For  tea?"  she  said.      "I'm  quite  worn 
out  with  walking : 
Yes,  tlianks,  your  arm.     And  will  you 
—  open  the  gate?" 


S.  M.  B.  riATT. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

MY  OLD  KENTUCKY  NURSE 

I  KNEW  a  Princess:  she  was  old. 

Crisp-haired,  Hat-featured,  with  a  look 

Such  as  no  dainty  pen  of  gold 
Would  write  of  in  a  Fairy  Book. 

So  bent  she  almost  crouched,  her  face 
Was  like  the  Sjihinx's  face,  to  me. 

Touched  with  vast  patience,  desert  grace, 
And  lonesome,  brooding  mystery. 

What  wonder  that  a  faith  so  strong 
As  hers,  so  sorrr'wful,  so  still. 

Should  watch  in  bitter  sands  so  long, 
Obedient  to  a  burdening  will ! 

This  Princess  was  a  Slave, — like  one 

I  read  of  in  a  painted  tale ; 
Yet  free  enough  to  see  the  sun, 

And  all  the  flowers,  without  a  vail. 

Not  of  the  Lamp,  not  of  the  Ring, 
The  helpless,  powerful  Slave  was  she, 

But  of  a  subtler,  fiercer  Thing: 
She  was  the  Slave  of  Slavery. 

Court-lace  nor  jewels  had  she  seen  : 
She  wore  a  ])recious  smile,  so  rare 

That  at  her  side  the  whitest  queen 
Were  dark,  ^her  darkness  was  so  fair. 

Nothing  of  loveliest  loveliness 

This  strange,  sad  Piincess  seemed  to 
lack ; 
Majestic  with  her  calm  distress 

She  was,  and  beautiful  though  black  : 

Black,  but  enchanted  black,  and  shut 
In  some  vague  Giant's  tower  of  air. 

Built  higher  than  her  hope  was.     But 
The  True  Knight  came  and  found  her 
there. 

The  Knight  of  the  Pale  Horse, he  laid 
His  shadowv  lance  against  the  spell 

That  hid  her  Self:  as  if  afraid. 

The  cruel  blackness  shrank  and  fell. 

Then,  lifting  slow  her  plensant  sleep, 
Hetookherwitli  him  through  the  night. 

And  swum  a  Kiver  cold  and  deep. 
And  vanished  up  an  awful  Height. 


304 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTL^RIES. 


And,  in  her  Fiithei's  House  beyond,  |  When  the  world  was  in  rhythm  and  life 

They  gave  her  lieauty,  robe,  and  crown,  i  was  its  rhyme  ; 

—  On  me,  1  think,  fai',  faint,  and  fond,       Whei'e  the  stream  of  the  years  flowed  so 
Her  eyes  to-day  look,  yearning,  down.  noiseless  and  narrow. 

That  across  it  there  floated  the  song  of 

.  the  sparrow ; 
For  a  sprig  of  green  caraway  carries  me 

there. 
To  the  old  village  church  and  the  old 

village  choir, 
"When  clear  of  the  floor  my  feet  slowly 

swung 
And  timed  the  sweet  pulse  of  the  praise 
as  they  sung 
I  HAVE  fancied  sometimes,  the  old  Bethel-    Till  the  glory  aslant  from  the  afternoon 

bent  beam,  '  ^^^ 

That  trembled  to  earth  in  the  Patriarch's    Seemed  the  rafters  of  gold  in  God's  temple 

dream,  i  begun ! 

Was  a  ladder  of  song  in  that  wilderness    You  may  smile  at  the  nasals  of  old  Dea- 
rest ^  '^'^"  Brown, 
From  the  pillow  of  stone  to  the  Blue  of    ^^^^o  followed  by  scent  till  he  ran  the 

the  Blest,  I  tune  down,  — 

And  the  angels  descending  to  dwell  with    ^^'^  *1'-"'  "^i^ter  Green,  with  more  good- 


B.  F.  TAYLOR. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  CHOIR. 


us  he 


ness  than  grace. 


"Old    Hundred"    and    "Corinth"    and    Rose  and  fell  on  the  tunes  as  she  stood 

"China"  and  "Mear."  I  in  her  place, 

I  And    where.    "Coronation"    exultantly 
All  the  hearts  are  not  dead,  nor  under         .        flows, 

the  sod,  I  Tried  to  reach  the  liigh  notes  on  the  tips 

That   those   breaths   can   blow  open   to  of  her  toes ! 

Heaven  and  God  !  ,  To  the  land  of  the  leal  they  have  gone 

Ah,  "Silver    Street"  leads   by   a    bright  with  their  song, 

golden  road.  Where  the  choir  and  the  chorus  together 

—  0,  not  to  the  hymns  that  in  harmony  belong. 

flowed,  —  0,  be  lifted,  ye  Gates  !    Let  me  hear  them 

But  those  sweet  human   psalms  in   the  again, — 

old-fashioned  choir,  Blessed    song,  blessed    Sabbath,  forever 

To  the  girl  that  sang  alt^j,  — the  girl  tliat  Amen  ! 

sang  air ! 
"Let  us  sing  in  His  praise,"  the  good 

minister  said, 
All  the  psalm-books  at  once  fluttered  oiien 

at  "York," 
Sunned  their  long  dotted  wings  in  the 

Wdnls  that  he  read. 
While  the  leader  leaped  into  the  tune  just 

ahead, 
And  politely  picked  up  the  key-note  vith  '  -A-  light  is  out  in  Italy, 


LAURA  C.  REDDEN. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

MAZZINI. 


a  fork, 


A  golden  tongue  of  purest  flame. 


And  the  vicious  old  viol  went  growling  ,  We  watched  it  burning,  long  and  lone, 
along,  I       And  every  watcher  know  its  name, 

At  the  iieels  of  the  girl.s,  in  the  rear  of    -^"'^  knew  from  whence  its  fervor  came: 
the  song.  I      That  one  rare  light  of  Italy, 

,  Which  ))ut  self-seeking  souls  to  shame  ! 

I  need  not  a  wing,  — bid  no  genii  come,    i 

With  a  wonderful  web  from  Arabi>"  loom,     Tin's  Hglil  which  burnt  for  Italy 

To  bear  mc  ag.iin  up  tiie  river  of  Time,     1      Through  all  the  blackness  of  her  night, 


JOHN   HAY. 


305 


She  doutted,  once  upon  a  timo, 
Because  it  took  away  her  sight, 

She  looked  and  said,  "There  is  no  light !" 
It  was  thine  eyes,  poor  Italy  I 

That  knew  not  dark  ajiart  liom  bright. 

This  flame  which  burnt  for  Italy, 
It  wouhl  not  let  her  hatei'S  sleep. 

They  blew  at  it  with  angiy  breath, 
And  only  fed  its  upward  lea]). 

And  only  made  it  hot  and  deep. 
Its  burning  showed  us  Italy, 

And  all  the  hopes  she  had  to  keep. 

This  light  is  out  in  Italy, 

Her  eyes  shall  seek  for  it  in  vain  ! 
For  her  sweet  sake  it  spent  itself. 

Too  early  flickering  to  its  wane,  — 
Too  long  blown  over  by  her  pain. 

Bow  down  and  -weep,  0  Italy, 
Thou  canst  not  kindle  it  again  ! 


UNAWARES. 

The  wind  was  whispering  to  the  vines 
The  secret  of  the  summer  night ; 
The  tinted  oriel  window  gh.'anied 
But  faintly  in  the  misty  light ; 
Beneath  it  we  together  sat 
In  the  sweet  stillness  of  content. 

Till  from  a  slow-consenting  cloud 
Came  forth  Diana,  bright  and  bold, 
And  drowned  u.s,  ere  we  were  aware, 
In  a  great  shower  of  liquid  gold  ; 
And,  shyly  lifting  up  my  eyes, 
I  made  ac(iuaintance  with  your  face. 

And  sudden  something  in  me  stirred, 
And  moved  me  to  impulsive  speech, 
"With  little  fluttei-ings  between. 
And  little  pauses  to  beseech. 
From  your  sweet  graciousness  of  mind, 
Indulgence  and  a  kindly  ear. 

Ah  !  glad  was  I  as  any  bird 
Tliat  softly  pipes  a  timid  note. 
To  hear  it  taken  up  and  trilled 
Out  cheerily  by  a  stronger  throat. 
When,  free  from  discord  and  constraint, 
Your  thought  responded  to  my  thought. 

I  had  a  carven  missal  once. 
With  graven  scenes  of  "Christ,  hisWoe." 
One  picture  in  that  quaint  old  book 
Will  never  from  my  niemorv  go, 

20 


Though  merely  in  a  childish  wise 
I  used  to  search  for  it  betimes. 

It  showed  the  face  of  God  in  mau 
Abandoned  to  his  watch  of  pain. 
And  given  of  his  own  good-will 
To  eveiy  weaker  thing's  dii-dain  ; 
But  fi-om  the  darkness  ovei-hend 
Two  pitying  angel  eyes  looked  down. 

How  often  in  the  bitter  night 
Have  I  not  fallen  on  my  face. 
Too  sick  and  tired  of  heart  to  ask 
God's  pity  in  my  grievous  case ; 
Till  the  dank  deadness  of  the  dark. 
Receding,  left  me,  pitiless. 

Then  have  I  said :  "Ah  !  Christ  the  Lord  ! 
God  sent  his  angel  unto  thee; 
But  both  ye  leave  me  to  myself,  — 
Perchance  ye  do  not  even  see  !  " 
Then  was  it  as  a  mighty  stone 
Above  my  sunken  heart  were  rolled. 

Now,  in  the  moon's  transfiguring  light, 
I  seemed  to  see  you  in  a  dream  ; 
Your  listening  face  was  silvered  o'er 
By  one  divinely  radiant  beam  ; 
I  leant  towards  you,  and  my  talk 
Was  dimly  of  the  haunting  past. 

I  took  you  through  deep  soundings  where 
My  fieighted  shi[is  went  dow  n  at  noon,  — 
Gave  glimpses  of  dellowered  plains. 
Blown  over  by  the  hot  Simoon  ; 
Then  I  was  silent  i'or  a  space : 
"  God  sends  no  angel  unto  nie  !  " 

My  heart  withdrej^'  into  itself, 
When  lo  !  a  knocking  at  the  door: 
"  Am  1  so  soon  a  stranger  here, 
Who  was  an  honored  guest  before?" 
Then  looking  in  your  eyes,  I  knew 
You  were  God's  angel  sent  to  me ! 


JOHN  HAY. 

[U.  S.   A.] 

A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

AsEXTiNEL  angel  sitting  high  in  glory 
Heard  this  shrill  wail  ring  out  from  Pur- 
gatory : 
"Have  mercy,   mighty  angel,  hear  my 
story  ! 


306 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


"I  loved,  — and,  Wind  with  passionate 

love,  I  fell. 
Love  b7'(>iight   me  down   to  death,    and 

death  to  Hell. 
For  God  is  just,  and  death  for  sin  is  well. 

"  I  do  not  rage  again.st  his  high  decree. 
Nor  for  myself  do  ask  that  grace  shall  be ; 
Rut  for  my  love  on  eaith  who  mourns 
for  me. 

"Great   Sinrit!     Let   me   see   my  love 

again 
And  comfort  him  one  hour,  and  I  were 

fain 
To  pay  a  thousand  years  of  fire  and  pain." 

Then  said  the  pitying  angel,  "Nay, 
repent 

That  wild  vow  !  Look,  the  dial-finger's 
bent 

Down  to  the  last  hour  of  thy  punish- 
ment ! " 

But  still  .she  wailed,    "T  pray  thee,  let 

me  go ! 
1  cannot  rise  to  peace  and  leave  liim  so. 
0,  let  me  soothe  hini  in  his  bitter  woe !" 

The  bi-azen  gates  gronnd  snllenly  ajar. 
And  upward,  joyous,  like  a  rising  star. 
She  ro.se  and  vanished  in  the  ether  far. 

But  soon  adown  tlie  dying  sunset  sailing, 
And   like  a  wounded    bird  her  pinions 

trailing.  ' 

She  fluttered  back,  with  broken-hearted 

wailing.  • 

She  sobbed,  "1  found  him  by  the  simi- 

mer  sea 
Reclined,    his    head    upon    a    maiden's 

knee,  — 
She  GUI  led  liis  hair  and  kissed  him.     Woe 

is  me ! " 

She   wept,    "Now  let   my  punishment 

begin  ! 
1  have  been  fond  and  foolish.     Let  me  in 
To  expiate  my  sorrow  and  my  sin." 


The  angel   answered 

go  higher ! 
To    be    deceived    in    your 

desire 
Was  bitterer  than  a  thousand  years  of    That  in  the  waiting  heart  of  God  forever 

^""•^  • "  '  Thou  too  shalt  find  the  sea. 


"Nay,  sad  soul, 
true    heart's 


ELIZABETH  STUAET  PHELPS. 

[v.    S.    A.] 

ON  THE  BRroGE  OF  SIGHS. 

It  chanceth  once  to  every  soul, 
AVithin  a  narrow  hour  of  doubt  and  dole, 

Upon  Life's  Bridge  of  Sighs  to  stand, 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand. 

0  palace  of  the  rose-heart's  hue  ! 
How  like  a  flower  the  warm  light  falls 
from  you ! 

0  prison  with  the  hollow  eyes ! 
Beneath  your  stony  stare  no  flowers  arise. 

0  palace  of  the  rose-sweet  sin  ! 

How  safe  the  heart  that  doe.s  not  enter  in ! 

0  blessed  prison-walls  !  how  true 
The  freedom  of  the  soul  that  chooseth 
you! 


ALL  THE  RIVERS. 

"All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
Like  tlie  pulsing  of  a  river, 
The  motion  of  a  song, 
Wind  the  olden  words  along 
The  tortuous  windings  of  my  thought, 
whenever 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea. 
0  you  little  leaping  river, 
Laugh  on  beneath  your  breath  ! 
With  a  heart  as  deep  as  death, 
Strong  stream,    go   patient,  brave   and 
hasting  never, 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea. 
Why  the  striving  of  a  river, 
The  ])a.ssion  of  a  soul  ? 
Calm  the  eternal  waters  roll 
Upon   the   eternal    shore.      Somewhere, 
whatever 
Seeks  it  finds  tlie  sea. 

All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea. 

O  tliou  bounding,  burning  river, 

Hurrying  heart  I  —  1  .seem 

To  know  (so  one  knows  in  a  dream) 


EEBECCA   S.    PALFREY. — WILLIAM   C.    GANNETT. 


307 


REBECCA  S.  PALFPiEY. 

[v.    S.    A.] 

WHITE  UNDERNEATH. 

Into  a  city  street, 

Nariow  and  noisome,  chance  had  led  my 

feet ; 
Poisonous  to  every  sense ;  and  the  sun's 

rays 
Loved  not  the  unclean  place. 

It  seemed  that  no  pure  thing 

Its  whiteness  here  would  ever  dare  to 

bring  ; 
Yet  even  into  this  dark  place  and  low, 
God  had  sent  down  his  snow. 


Here,  too,  a  little  child 

Stood  by  the  drift,  now  blackened  and 

defiled ; 
And  with  his  rosy  hajjds,  in  earnest^play, 
Scraped  the  dai'k  crust  away. 

Checking  my  hurried  pace, 
To  watch  the  busy  hands  and  earnest  face, 
I  heard  him  laugh  aloud  in  y)ure  delight. 
That  underneath,  't  was  white. 

Then,  through  a  broken  pane, 

A  woman's  voice  summoned  him  in  again, 

With   softened   mother-tones,  that   half 

excused 
The  unclean  words  she  used. 


And  as  I  lingered  near. 
His  baby  accents  fell  u]ion  my  ear  : 
"See,  I  can  make  the  snow  again  for  you. 
All  clean  and  white  and  new  !" 


Ah  !  surely  God  knows  best. 

Our  sight  is  short ;  faith  trusts  to  him 

the  rest. 
Sometimes,  we  know,  he  gives  to  human 

hands 
To  work  o»t  his  commands. 

Perhaps  he  holds  apart, 

Py  baby  fingers,  in  that  mother's  heart. 

One  fair,  clean  spot  that  yet  may  spread 

and  grow, 
Till  all  be  white  as  snow. 


WILLIAM  C.  GAI^NETT. 

[U.   S.    A.] 

LISTENING  FOR  GOD. 

I  HEAR  it  often  in  the  dark, 

I  hear  it  in  the  light,  — 
Where  is  the  voice  that  calls  to  me 

With  such  a  quiet  might  ? 
It  seems  but  echo  to  my  thought, 

And  yet  beyond  the  stars ; 
It  seems  a  heart-beat  in  a  hush, 

And  yet  the  planet  jars. 

0,  may  it  be  that  far  within 

My  inmost  soul  there  lies 
A  spirit-sky,  that  o})ens  with 

Those  voices  of  surprise? 
And  can  it  be,  by  night  and  day, 

That  firmament  serene 
Is  just  the  heaven  where  God  himself, 

The  Father,  dwells  unseen  ? 

0  God  within,  so  close  to  me 

Tha1#every  thought  is  plain. 
Be  judge,  be  friend,  be  Father  still. 

And  in  thy  heaven  reign  ! 
Thy  heaven  is  mine, — my  very  soul ! 

Thy  words  are  sweet  and  strong; 
They  fill  my  inward  silences 

With  music  and  with  song. 

They  send  me  challenges  to  right, 

And  Ipi'^  rebuke  my  ill ; 
They  ring  my  bells  of  victory. 

They  breathe  rfiy  "Peace, "be  still!" 
They  ever  seem  to  say,  "My  child, 

Why  seek  me  so  all  day? 
Now  journey  inward  to  thyself. 

And  listen  by  the  way." 


UNKNOWN. 


GOD  KNOWETH. 

I  KNOW  not  what  shall  befixU  me, 

God  hangs  a  mist  o'er  my  eyes. 

And  so,  each  step  in  my  onward  path, 

He  makes  new  scenes  to  rise, 

And  every  joy  he  sends  me 

Comes  as  a  sweet  surprise. 


308 


SOXGS   OF   TIIEEE   CENTURIES, 


I  see  not  a  step  before  me, 

As  I  tread  on  another  year ; 

But  tlu;  past  is  still  in  God's  keeping, 

The  future  his  mercy  will  clear  ; 

And  what  looks  dark  in  the  distance 


M 


ay  brighten  as  I  draw  near. 


For  perhaps  the  dreariest  future 
Has  less  bitter  than  I  think  ; 
The  Ijord  may  sweeten  the  waters 
Before  I  stoop  to  drink  ; 
Or,  if  Manih  must  be  Marah, 
He  will  stand  beside  the  brink. 

It  may  be  he  has  waiting 
For  the  coming  of  my  feet 
Some  gift  of  such  rare  blessedness. 
Some  joy  so  strangely  sweet, 
That  my  lijjs  shall  only  tremble 
With  the  thoughts  I  cannot  speak. 

0  blissful,  restful  ignorance  ! 
'T  is  blessed  not  to  know. 

If  it  ke(!ps  me  so  still  in  those  ai-ms 
That  will  not  let  me  go. 
And  hushes  my  soul  to  rest        * 
In  the  bosom  that  loves  me  so. 

So  I  go  on,  not  knowing ; 

1  would  not  if  I  might ; 

I  would   lather  walk  in  the  dark  with 

God, 
Than  go  alone  in  the  light ; 
1  would  ratiier  walk  with  hinft  by  faith 
Tlian  walk  alone  by  sight. 

My  heart  shrinks  back  from  trials 
"\Vhi(di  the  future  may  disclose; 
Yet  I  never  have  a  sorrow 
But  what  the  dear  Lord  chose ; 
So  I  send  the  coming  tear  back. 
With  the  whispered  word.  He  knows ! 


JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 

[U.    S.    A.) 

A  SONG  OF  TRUST. 

0  Love  Divine,  of  all  that  is 
The  sweetest  still  and  best. 

Fain  would  I  comc!  and  re.st  to-night 
Upon  thy  tender  breast ; 


As  tired  of  sin  as  any  child 

Was  ever  tired  of  play, 
When  evening's  hush  has  folded  iu 

The  noises  of  the  day ; 

When  just  for  very  weariness 

The  little  one  will  creep 
Into  the  arms  that  have  no  joy 

Like  holding  him  in  sleep ; 

And  looking  upward  to  thy  face, 
So  gentle,  sweet,  and  strong, 

In  all  its  looks  for  those  who  love, 
So  pitiful  of  wrong,  - 

I  pray  thee  turn  me  not  away, 

For,  sinful  though  I  be. 
Thou  knowest  everything  I  need. 

And  all  my  need  of  thee. 

And  yet  the  spirit  in  my  heart 
Says,  Wheiefore  should  I  pray 

That  thou  shouldst  seek  me  with  thy  love. 
Since  thou  dost_seek  alway ; 

And  dost  not  even  wait  until 

I  urge  my  steps  to  thee ; 
But  in  the  darkness  of  my  life 

Art  coming  still  to  me  ? 

I  pray  not,  then,  because  I  would ; 

I  pray  because  1  must ; 
There  is  no  meaning  in  my  prayer 

But  thankfulness  and  trust. 

I  would  not  have  thee  otherwise 

Than  what  thou  ever  art : 
Be  still  thyself,  and  then  I  know 

We  cannot  live  apart. 

But  still  thy  love  will  beckon  me, 
And  still  thy  streiigtii  will  come. 

In  many  ways  to  bear  me  up 
And  bring  me  to  my  home. 

And  thou  wilt  hear  the  thought  I  mean. 

And  not  the  words  I  say  ; 
Wilt  hear  the  thanks  among  the  words 

That  only  seem  to  ))ray ; 

As  if  thou  wert  not  always  good. 

As  if  thy  loving  care 
Could  ever  miss  me  in  the  midst 

Of  this  thy  temple  fair. 

For,  if  I  ever  doubted  thee, 
How  could  I  any  more ! 


PAUL    H.    HAYNE. 


309. 


This  very  night  mj'  tossing  bark 
Has  reached  the  happy  shore ; 

And  still,  for  all  my  sighs,  my  heart 

Has  sung  itself  to  rest, 
O  Love  Divine,  most  far  and  near, 

Upon  thy  tender  breast. 


PAUL  H.  HAYNE. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

PRE- EXISTENCE. 

While  sauntering  through  the  crowded 

street. 
Some  lialf-remembered  face  I  meet, 

Albeit  upon  no  mortal  shore 

That  face,  methinks,  has  smiled  before. 

Lost  in  a  gay  and  festal  throng, 
I  tremble  at  some  tender  song,  — • 

Set  to  an  air  whose  golden  bars 
I  must  have  heard  iu  other  stars. 

In  sacred  aisles  I  pause  to  share 
The  blessings  of  a  priestly  prayer,  — 

When  the  whole  scene  which  greets  mine 

eyes 
In  some  strange  mode  I  recognize 

As  one  whose  every  mystic  part 
I  ieel  prefigured  in  my  heart. 

At  sunset,  as  I  calmty  stand, 
A  stranger  on  an  alien  strand, 

Familiar  as  my  childhood's  home 
Seems  the  long  stretch  of  wave  and  foam. 

One  .sails  toward  me  o'er  the  bay. 
And  what  he  comes  to  do  and  say 

I  can  foretell.     A  prescient  lore 
Springs  from  some  life  outlived  of  yore. 

O  swift,  instinctive,  startling  gleams 
Of  deep  soul-knowledge  !  not  as  dreams 

For  aye  ye  vaguely  dawn  and  die. 
But  oft  with  lightning  certainty 


Pierce  through  th(!  dark,  oblivious  brain, 
To    make    old   thoughts    and    memories 
plain, — 

Thoughts  which  perchance  must  travel 

back 
Across  the  wild,  bewildering  track 

Of  countless  aeons  ;  memories  far. 
High-reaching  as  yon  pallid  star, 

Unknown,  scarce  seen  whose   flickering 

grace 
Faints  on  the  outmost  rings  of  space  ! 


FROM  THE  WOODS. 

Why  should  I,  with  a  mournful,  morbid 

spleen. 
Lament  that  here,  in  this  half-desert 
scene, 
My  lot  is  placed? 
At  least  the  poet-winds  are  bold  and 

loud,  — 
At  least  the  sunset  glorifies  the  cloud, 
And  forests  old  and  proud 
Rustle  their  verdurous  banners  o'er  the 
waste. 

Perchance  't  is  best  that  I,  whose  Fate's 

eclipse 
Seems  final,  —  I,  whose  sluggish  life- 
wave  slips 
Languid  away, — 
Should  here,  w  ithin  these  lowly  walks, 

apart 
From  the  fierce  throbbings  of  the  j'op- 
ulous  mart. 
Commune  with  mine  own  heart, 
While    Wisdom     blooms    from    buried 
Hope's  decay. 

Nature,  though  wild   her   forms,  sus- 
tains me  still ; 
The  founts  are  musical, — the  barren 
hill 
Glows  with  strange  liglits ; 
Through  solemn  pine-groves  the  small 

rivulets  fleet 
Sparkling,  as  if  a  Naiad's  silvery  feet. 
In  quick  and  coy  retreat. 
Glanced  through  the  j tar-gleams  on  calm' 
summer  nights; 


310 


SONGS.  OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


And  the  great  sky,  the  royal  heaven 

above, 
Darkens  with  storms  or  melts  in  liues 
of  love ; 
"While  far  remote, 
Just   where   the    suulight  smites  the 

woods  with  tire, 
Wakens     tlie    multitudinous    sylvan 
choir ; 
Their  innocent  love's  desire 
Poured  in  a  rill  of  song  from  each  har- 
monious throat. 

My  walls  are  crumbling,  hut  immortal 

looks 
Smile  on  me  here  from  faces  of  rare 
books: 
Shakespeare  consoles 
Myheartwithtruephilosophies ;  abalm 
Of  spirituiil  dews  from  humbler  song 
or  psalm 
Fills  me  with  tender  calm. 
Or  through  hushed  heavens  of  soul  Mil- 
ton's deep  thunder  rolls ! 

And    more    than    all,  o'er    shattered 

wrecks  of  Fate, 
The  relics  of  a  happier  time  and  .state, 

My  nobler  life 
Shines  on  untpienched  !     0  deathless 

love  that  lies 
In  the  clear  midnight  of  those  passion- 
ate eyes ! 
Joy  waneth  I  Fortune  flies ! 
What  then  ?    Thou  still  art  here,  soul  of 
my  soul,  my  Wife ! 


ISA  CRAIG  KNOX. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  BRIDES  OF  QTJAIR. 

A  STiLi,NKSS  crept  about  the  house, 
At  eveiifall,  in  noontide  glare  ; 

Upon  the  silent  hills  looked  forth 
The  many-windowed  House  of  Quair. 

The  peacock  on  the  terrace  screamed  ; 

iJrowsed  on  the  lawn  the  timid  hare; 
The  great  trees  grew  i'  the  avenue. 

Calm  by  the  sheltered  House  of  Quair. 

Tlie  j)ool  was  still  ;  around  its  brim 
The  aldeis  sickened  all  the  air: 


There  came  no  murmur  from  the  streams, 
Though    nigh  flowed  Leither,  Tweed, 
and  Quair. 

The  days  hold  on  their  ^yonted  pacp. 
And  men  to  court  and  camp  repair,, 

Their  ])art  to  flll,  of  gt)od  or  ill. 

While  women  keep  the  House  of  Quair. 

And  one  is  clad  in  widow's  weeds, 
And  one  is  maiden-like  and  fair, 

And  day  by  day  they  seek  the  paths 
About  the  lonely  fields  of  Quair. 

To  see  the  trout  leap  in  the  streams, 
The  summer  clouds  reflected  there,* 

The  maiden  loves  in  pensive  dreams 
To  hang  o'er  .silver  Tweed  and  Quair. 

Within,  in  pall-black  velvet  clad, 
Sits  stately  in  her  oaken  chair  — 

A  stately  dame  of  ancient  name  — 
The  mother  of  the  House  of  Quair. 

Her  daughter  broiders  by  lier  side, 
With  heavy  drooping  golden  hair, 

And  listens  to  her  frequent  plaint, — 
"111  fare  the  brides  that  come  to  Quaii^ 

"For  more  than  one  hath  lived  in  pine. 
And  more  than  one  hath  died  of  care^ 

And  more  than  one  hath  sorely  sinned. 
Left  lonely  in  the  House  of  Quair. 

"Alas  !  and  ere  thy  father  died 
I  had  not  in  his  heart  a  sliare. 

And  now  —  may  God  forfend  her  ill  — 
Thy  brother  brings  his  bride  to  Quair." 

She  came ;  they  kissed  her  in  the  hall, 
They  kissed  her  on  the  winding  stair, 

They  led  her  to  the  chamber  high, 
The  fairest  in  the  House  of  Qaair. 

They  bade  her  from  the  window  look. 
And  mark  the  scene  how  ]>assing  fair. 

Among  whose  ways  the  (juiet  days 
Would  linger  o'er  the  wife  of  Quair. 

"'T  is  fair,"  slie  said  on  looking  forth, 
"But  what  although  'twere  bleak  and 
bare  —  " 

She  looked  the  love  she  did  not  sjieak. 
And  broke  the  ancient  curse  of  Quair. 


"Where'er  he  dwells,  where'er  he  goes, 
I       His  dangers  and  his  toils  I  share." 
What  need  be  said, — she  was  not  one 
Of  the  ill-fated  brides  of  Quair. 


HENRY   TIMROD. — WALTER    F.    MITCHELL. 


311 


HE^'RY  TIMROD. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

SPRING  IN  CAROLINA. 

t 
Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the 

air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair. 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver 

rain. 
Is  with  lis  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  ti'ee 

The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there's  a   look  about  the  leafless 

bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  eveiy.side  we  trace  the  hand 

Of  Winter  in  the  land, 

Save  where  the   maple   reddens  on  the 

lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances 

we  find 
Tliat  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn. 
The  brown  of  autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  j'ou 

know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 
A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through 

the  gloom. 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth. 

The  crocus  breaking  earth ; 

And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white 

and  green. 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must 

pass 
Along  the  budding  grass. 
And  weeks  go  by,  before'the  enamored 

South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 


Still  there  's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  un- 

boin 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn  ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating 

And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 

A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 

Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce 

wouhl  start. 
If  from  a  beech's  heart, 
Ablue-e3-ed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should 

say, 
•'Behold  me!    I  am  May!" 


WALTER  F.  MITCHELL. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

TACKING  SHIP  OFF  SHORE. 

The  weather-leech  of  the  topsail  sbivers. 
The  bow-lines  strain,  and  the  lee-shrouds 

slacken. 
The  braces  are  taut,  thelithebooni  quivers, 
And  the  waves  with  the  coming  ifpiall- 

cloud  blacken. 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather-bow. 

Is  the  lighthouse    tall    on  Fire   Island 

Head  ? 
There  's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  captain's 

brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and  with  eager  eye, 
To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  sliore  I  gaze. 
Till  the  muttered  orderot'" FiiU  andbn!" 
Is  suddenly  changed  tlir '  'Full  for  stay  i!  " 

The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze, 
As  her  broadside  i'air  to  the  blast  shelays  ; 
And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  .■■eas, 
As  the  pilot  calls,  "Stand  by  for  stays!" 

It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place, 
With  the  gatliered  coil  in  liis  hardened 

hands, 
By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  lirac<«, 
Waiting  the  watchword  impatient  stands. 


312 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES, 


And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  Head  draws 

near, 
As,  trnnipet-win<^ed,  the  pilot's  shout 
From  his  post  ou  the  bowsprit's  heel  I 

hear, 
"With   the    welcome    call   of,    "Ready! 

About!" 

No  time  to  spare  !     It  is  touch  and  go ; 
And  the  captain  growls,  "Down,  helm! 

hard  down  ! " 
As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes  I 

throw, 
"While  heaven  grows  black  with  thcstorni- 

cloud's  frown. 

High  o'er  the  knightdieads flies  thespray. 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging 

sea  ; 
And  my  shoulder  stifT  to  the  wheel  I  lay. 
As  I  answer,  "Ay,  ay,  sir!    Ha-a-rd  a, 

he!" 

With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed 
The  sliijt  Hies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 
«    The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede, 
And  the  headland   white  we  have  left 
behind. 

The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse, 
And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats  ; 
Tiie  sjjanker  slats,  and  the  mainsail  flaps  ; 
And   thunders   the   order,   "Tacks   and 
sheets!" 

^lid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the  tramp 

of  the  crew, 
Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall : 
The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew. 
And  now  is  the  moment  for,  "Mainsail, 

haul!" 

And  the  heavy  yards,  like  a  baby's  toy, 
IJy  tifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung  ; 
She  holds  her  way,  and  1  look  with  Joy 
Forthefiist  white  spray  o'er  tlie  bulwarks 
flung. 

"  Let  go,  and  haul !"  'T  is  the  last  com- 
mand. 

And  the  head-.sails  fill  to  the  blast  once 
mora; 

Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 

"With  its  breakers  whit(!  on  the  shingly 
shore. 


What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the 

s(]uall ! 
I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea; 
The   first   mate   clamors,  "Belay   there, 

all!" 
And  the  captain's  breath  once  more  comes 

free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  ily ; 
Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow. 
In  my  fo'castle  bunk,  in  a  jacket  dry. 
Eight  bells  have  struck,  and  my  watch  is 
below. 


IIARPJET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFOllD. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

HEREAFTER. 

Love,  when  all  these  years   .are  silent, 

vanished  quite  and  laid  to  rest. 
When    you    and    I    are   sleeping,  folded 

breathless  breast  to  breast. 
When  no  morrow  is  before  us,  and  the 

long  grass  tosses  o'er  us. 
And  our  grave  remains  forgotten,  or  by 

alien  footsteps  pressed, — ■ 

Still  that  love  of  ours  will  linger,  that 

great  love  enrich  the  earth, 
Sunshine  in  the  heavenly  azure,  breezes 

blowing  joyous  mirth  ; 
Fragrance    fanning   off  from    flowers, 

melod}'  of  sunmier  showers. 
Sparkle  of  the  spicy  wood-fires  round  the 

happy  autumn  hearth. 

That 's  our  love.     But  you  and  I,  dear, 

—  shall  we  linger  with  it  yet. 
Mingled  in  one  dewdrop,  tangled  in  one 

sunbeam's  golden  net,  — 
On    the  violet's   ]nirple    bosom,  I  the 

sheen,  but  you  tiie  blossom. 
Stream  on  sunset  winds  and  be  the  haze 

with  which  some  hill  is  wet? 

Or,  beloved,  —  if   aseending, — when  we 

have  endowed  the  woi'ld 
With  tiie  best  bloom  of  our  l>eing,  whither 

will  our  way  be  whirled. 
Through  wliat  vast  and  starry  spaces, 

toward  what  awful  holy  jilaces. 
With  a  white  light  on  our  faces,  spirit 

over  spirit  fuiled ? 


WILLIAM   WINTER.  —  JOAQUIN   MILLER. 


313 


Only  this  our  3'earning  answers,  — where- 

soVr  tliat  way  defile, 
Not  a  film  sliall  part  us  through  the  seons 

of  that  mighty  wliile, 
In   the   fair  eternal  weather,  even   as 

{)hantoms  still  together, 
Floating,    floating,   one   forever,  in   the 

light  of  God's  great  smile ! 


SONG. 

In  the  summer  twilight, 

While  yet  the  dew  was  hoar, 
I  went  jjlucking  purple  pansies 

Till  my  love  should  come  to  shore. 
The  fishing-lights  their  dances 

Were  keeping  out  at  sea. 
And,  "Come,"  I  sang,  "my  true  love, 

Come  hasten  home  to  me  !" 

But  the  sea  it  fell  a-moaning. 

And  the  white  gulls  rocked  thereon. 
And  the  young  moon  dro]>ped  from  heaven. 

And  the  liglits  hitl,  one  by  one. 
All  silently  thcii-  glances 

Slii)]ied  down  the  cruel  sea. 
And,  "Wait,"  cried  the  night  and  wind 
and  storm, — 

"Wait  till  I  come  to  thee." 


WILLIAM  WINTER. 

:-  [v.   S.   A.] 

AZRAEL. 

CoMEwith  a  smile,  when  come  thou  must, 
Evangel  of  the  world  to  be. 

And  touch  and  gloiify  this  dust, — 
This  shnddeiing  dust  that  now  is  me,  — 
And  from  this  prison  set  me  free ! 

Long  in  those  awful  eyes  I  quail. 
That  gaze  across  the  grim  profound  : 

Upon  that  sea  there  is  no  sail, 
Nor  any  light,  nor  any  sound. 
From  the  far  shore  that  girds  it  round. 

* 

Onlv — two  still  and  steady  rays. 

That  those  twin  oibs  of  doom  o'ertop ; 

Only — a  quiet,  patient  gaze 

Tliat  drinks  my  being,  drop  by  drop. 
And  bids  the  pulse  of  nature  stop. 


Come  with  a  smile,  auspicious  friend, 
To  usher  in  the  eternal  day  ! 

Of  these  weak  terrors  make  an  end. 
And  charm  the  jialtry  chains  away 
That  bind  me  to  this  timorous  clay ! 

And  let  me  know  my  soul  akin 
To  sunrise  and  the  winds  of  morn, 

And  every  gramleur  that  has  been 
Since  this  all-glorious  world  was  born, 
Nor  longer  droop  in  my  own  scorn. 

Come,  when  the  way  grows  dark  and  chill. 
Come,  when  the  baffled  mind  is  weak. 

And  in  the  heart  that  voice  is  still 
Which  used  in  happier  days  to  speak, 
Or  only  whisj^ers  sadly  meek. 

Come  with  a  smile  that  dims  the  sun  ! 
With  pitying  heart  and  gentle  hand  ! 

And  waft  me,  from  a  work  that 's  done, 
To  ]ieace  that  waits  on  thy  command, 
lu  God's  mysterious  better  land! 


JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

[O.    S.    A.] 

FROM   "WALKER  IN  NICARAGUA." 

Success  had  made  him  more  than  king; 

Defeat  made  him  the  vilest  thing 

In  name,  contempt  or  liate  can  bring; 

So  much  the  loaded  dice  of  war 

Do  make  or  mar  of  character. 

Speak  ill  who  will  of  him,  he  died 

In  all  disgrace;  say  of  the  dead 

His   heart   was  black,  his   hands   were 

red,  — 
Say  this  much,  and  be  satisfied. 

I  lay  this  crude  wreath  on  his  dust, 
Inwove  with  sad,  sweet  memories 
Recalled  here  by  these  colder  seas. 
I  leave  the  wild  bird  with  his  trust, 
To  sing  and  say  him  nothing  wrong; 
I  wake  no  rivalry  of  song. 

He  lies  low  in  the  levelled  sand, 
Unsheltered  from  the  tropic  sun, 
.\nd  now  of  all  he  knew,  not  one 
AVIU  speak  him  fair,  in  that  far  land. 
Perhaps  't  was  this  that  made  me  seek, 
Disguised,  his  grave  one  winter-tide; 


314 


SONGS   OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


A  weakness  for  the  weaker  side, 
A  silling  with  the  helpless  weak. 

A  palm  not  far  held  out  a  liand ; 
Hard  by  a  long  green  bamboo  swung, 
Anil  bent  like  some  great  bow  unstrung, 
And  quivered  like  a  willow  wand; 
Beneath  a  broad  banana's  leaf. 
Perched  on  its  fruits  that  crooked  hung, 
A  bird  in  rainbow  splendor  sung 
A  low,  sad  song  of  tempered  grief. 

No  sod,  no  sign,  no  cross  nor  stone, 
Bit  at  his  side  a  cactus  green 
U[)held  its  lances  long  and  keen  ; 
It  stood  in  iiot  red  sands  alone. 
Flat-palmed  and  fierce  with  lifted  spears  ; 
One  l)loom  of  crimson  crowned  its  head, 
A  droj)  of  blood,  so  bright,  so  red, 
Yet  redolent  as  roses'  tears. 
In  my  left  liand  I  held  a  shell, 
All  rosy  lipped  and  pearly  red; 
I  laid  it  by  his  lowly  bed. 
For  he  did  love  so  passing  well 
The  giand  songs  of  the  solemn  sea. 

0  shell !  sing  well,  w'ild,  with  a  will, 
When  storms  blow  iiard  and  birds  be  still. 
The  wildest  sea-song  known  to  thee ! 

1  said  some  things,  with  folded  hands, 
Soft  whispeivd  in  the  dim  sea-sound, 
And  eyes  held  humbly  to  the  ground, 
And  frail  knees  sunken  in  the  sands. 
He  had  done  more  than  this  for  me, 
And  y^t  I  could  not  well  do  more: 

I  turned  me  down  the  olive  shore. 
And  set  a  sad  face  to  the  sea. 


SUNRISE  IN  VENICE. 

Night  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep; 
Her  brows  are  gathered  in  broken  rest; 
Sullen  old  lion  of  dark  St.  Mark, 
And  a  star  in  the  east  starts  up  from  the 

deep ; 
White  as  my  lilies  that  grow  in  the  west. 
Hist!  men  are  passing  hurriedly. 
I  see  the  yellow  wide  wings  of  a  bark 
Sail  silently  over  my  morning-star. 
I  see  men  move  in  the  moving  dai'k, 
Tall  and  silent  as  columns  are, — 
Great  sinewy  men  that  are  good  to  see, 
With  hair  pushed  back  and  with  open 

breasts ; 
Barefooted  fishermen  seeking  their  boats, 
Brown  as  walnuts  and  hairy  as  goats,  — 


Brave  old  water-dogs,  wed  to  the  sea. 
First  to  their  labors  and  last  to  their  rests. 

Ships  are  moving!     I  hear  a  horn  ; 
A  silver  trumpet  it  sounds  to  me, 
Deep-voiced  and  musical,  far  a-sea  .  .  . 
Answers  back,  and  again  it  calls. 
'T  isthesentinel  boats  that  watch  the  town 
All  niglit,  as  mounting  her  watery  walls, 
And  watching   for  pirate  or  smuggler. 

Down 
Over  the  sea,  and  reaching  away. 
And  against  the  east,  a  soft  light  falls,  — • 
Silvery  soft  as  the  mist  of  morn. 
And  I  catch  a  breath  like  the  breath  of 

day. 

The  east  is  blossoming !     Yea,  a  rose, 
Vast  as  the  heavens,  soft  as  a  kiss. 
Sweet  as  the  presence  of  wonuin  is, 
Kises  and  reaches  and  widens  and  grows 
Right  out  of  the  sea,  as  a  blossoming  tree  ; 
Richer  and  licher,  so  higher  and  higher, 
Deeper  and  deeper  it  takes  its  hue ; 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  reaches  through 
The  space  of  heaven  and  the  place  of  star.s. 
Till  all  is  as  rich  as  a  rose  can  be, 
Andmy  rose-leaves  fall  into  billows  of  fire. 
Then  beams  reach  upward  as  arms  from 

a  sea ; 
Then  lances  and  arrows  are  aimed  at  me. 
Tiien  lanees  and  spangles  and  spars  and 

bars 
Are  broken  and  shivered  and  strown  on 

the  sea ; 
And  around  and  about  me  tower  and  spire 
Start  from  the  billows  like  tongues  of  fire. 


UNKNOWN. 


DIFFERENT  POINTS  OF  VIEW. 

Saith  the  white  owl  to  the  martin  folk. 
In  the  belfry  tower  so  grim  and  gray  : 

"Why  do  they  deafen  us  with  these  bells  ? 
Is  any  one  dead  or  born  to-day?" 

A  martin  peeped  over  the  rim  of  its  nest. 
And   answered   crossly:  "Why,  ain't 
you  heard 
That   an    heir   is   coming   to   the   great 
estate?" 
"I  'aven't,"  the  owl  said,  "'pon  my 
word." 


ANNA   BOYNTON   AVERILL. 


315 


"Are  men  born  so,  with  that  white  cock- 
:  ade?" 

Said  the  little  field-mouse  to  the  old 
brown  rat. 
"Why,  you  silly  child,"  the  sage  replied, 
"This  is  the  bridegroom,  —  they  know 
him  by  that." 

Saith  the  snail  sosnuginhisdappledshell, 
Slowly  stretching  one  cautious  horn, 

As  the  beetle  was  hurrying  by  so  brisk. 
Much  to  his  snailship's  inward  scorn : 

"Why  does  that  creature  ride  by  so  fa.st? 
Has  a  fh-e  broke   out  to   the  east  or 
west?" 
"Your  Grace,  he  rides  to  the  wedding- 
feast," — 
"Let  the  madman  go.    What  I  want 's 


rest. 


The 


swallows     around     the    woodman 

skimmed, 

Poising  and  turning  on  flashing  wing ; 

One  said  :  " How liveththislumpot' earth? 

in  theair,  he  canneithersoarnorspring. 

"Over  the  meadows  we  sweep  and  dart, 
Down  with  the  flowers,  or  up  in  the 
skies ; 
While  these  poor  lumberers  toil  and  slave. 
Half  starved,  for  how  can  they  catch 
their  flies?" 

Quoth  the  dry-rot  worm  to  his  artisans 
In  the  carpenter's  shop,  as  they  bored 
away : 
"Hark  to  the  sound  of  the  saw  and  file! 
What  are  these  creatures  at  work  at,  — 
say?" 

From  his  covered  passage  a  worm  looked 

out. 

And  eyed  the  beings  so  busy  o'erhead  : 

"I  scarcely  know,  my  lord  ;  but  I  think 

They  're  making  a  box  to  bury  their 

dead!" 

Says  a  butterfly  with  his  wings  of  blue 
All  in  a  flutter  of  careless  joj% 

As  he  talks  to  a  dragon-fly  over  a  flower: 
"Ours  is  a  life,  sir,  with  no  alloy. 

"What  are  those  black  things,  row  arid 
row, 

Winding  alongby  the  new-mown  hay  ?" 
"That  is  a  funeral,"  .says  the  fly  : 

"The  carpenter  buries  his  son  to-day." 


ANNA  BOYNTON  AVEEILL. 


[U.    S.    A.] 


BIRCH  STREAM. 


At  noon,  within  the  dusty  town. 
Where  the  wild  river  rushes  down, 

And  thunders  hoarsely  all  day  long, 
I  think  of  thee,  my  hermit  stream. 
Low  singing  in  thy  summer  dream. 

Thine  idle,  sweet,  old,  tranciuil  song. 

Northward,  Katahdin's  chasnied  jiile 
Looms  througli  thy  low,  long,  leafy  aisle. 

Eastward,  Olamon's  summit  shines  ; 
And  I  upon  thy  grassy  shore. 
The  dreamful,  happy  child  of  yore,   * 

Worship  before  mine  olden  shrine.s. 

Again  the  sultry  noontide  hush 
Is  sweetly  broken  by  the  thrush. 

Whose  clear  bell  rings  and  dies  away 
Beside  thy  banks,  in  coverts  deep, 
Where  nodding  buds  of  orchis  sleep 

In  dusk,  and  dream  not  it  is  day. 

Again  the  wild  cow-lily  floats 
Her  golden-freighted,  tented  boats, 

ln»thy  cool  coves  of  softened  gloom, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  whispering  reed. 
And  purple  ])lumes  of  pickerel-weed. 

And  meadow-sweet  in  tangled  bloom. 

The  startled  minnows  dart  in  flocks 
Beneath  thy  glimmering  amber  rocks. 

If  liut  a  zeph^T  stirs  the  brake  ; 
The  silent  swallow  swoops,  a  flash 
Of  light,  and  leaves,  with  dainty  plash, 

A  ring  of  ripj)les  in  her  wake. 

—  Without,  the  land  is  hot  and  dim ; 
The  level  fields  in  languor  swim. 

Their  stubble-grasses  brown  as  dust; 
And  all  along  the  upland  lanes, 
Where  shadeless  noon  oppressive  reigns, 

Dead  roses  wear  their  crowns  of  rust. 

Within,  is  neither  blight  nor  death. 
The  fierce  sun  woos  with  ardent  breath, 

But  cannot  win  thy  sylvan  heart. 
Only  the  child  who  loves  thee  long. 
With  faithful  worship  yuire  and  strong. 

Can  know  how  dear  and  sweet  thou  art. 


316 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


So  loved  I  thee  in  days  gone  by, 

So  love  I  yet,  though  leagues  may  lie 

Between  us,  and  the  years  divide;  — 
A  breath  of  coolness,  dawn,  and  dew,  - 
A  joy  forever  fiesh  and  true. 

Thy  memory  doth  with  me  abide. 


KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  tlie  river  lane; 

OiiQ,after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Tlien  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill. 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 
And   something  shadowed  the  sunny 
face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go: 

Two  already  were  lying  dead, 

Under  tlie  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  doiie. 
And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  mead- 
ow-swamp, 
Over  hi§  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun. 
And  stealthily  followed  the  footpath 
damp. 

Across  the  clover,  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  rcsohite  lieartaud  purpose  grim, 
Though  colli  was  the  d(!w  on  his  hurry- 
ing feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled 
him. 

Thricesince  then  had  the  lanesbeen  white, 
And  tlie  oichards   swe(;t  with   ajiple- 
bloom ; 
And  now,  when  tlie  cows  came  back  at 
night. 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two  had 

lain  ; 
And  the  old  man's  tremulous,   palsied 

arm 
■    Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 


The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late  : 
He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work 
was  done ; 

But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 
He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one : 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 
Shaking   their  horns  in  the  evening 
wind ; 
Cropping   the    buttercups    out    of    the 
grass,  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 
The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 

And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping 
hair, 
Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For   Southern    prisons    will    sometimes 
yawn. 
And  j'ield  their  dead  unto  life  again  : 
And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy 
dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting 
eyes ; 
For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the 
li()s  are  dumb : 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 
Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 


LIZZIE  G.  PARKER. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

WAITING. 

For  a  foot  that  will  not  come, 
For  a  song  that  will  not  sound, 

I  hearken,  wait  and  moan  alway, 
And  weary  months  go  round. 

Never  again  in  the  world 
Sliall  that  lost  footstep  be ; 

Nor  sea,  nor  bird,  nor  reedy  wind 
Can  match  that  song  to  me. 

But  in  the  chants  of  heaven, 
Ami  down  tlie  gohlen  stieet, 

My  heart  shall  single  out  that  song 
And  know  that  touch  of  feet. 


UNKNOWN. 


317 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  SECRET  OF  DEATH. 

"She  is  dead ! "  they  said  to  him.    "Come 

away ; 
Kiss  her  and  leave  her,  thy  love  is  clay  ! " 

They  smoothed  her  tresses  of  dark  brown 

hair ; 
On  her  forehead  of  stone  they  laid  it  fair ; 

Over  her  eyes  which  gazed  too  nuich, 
They  drew  the  lids  with  a  gentle  touch  ; 

With  a  tender  touch  they  closed  np  well 
The  sweet,  thin  lips  that  had  secrets  to 
tell ; 

About  her  brows  and  beautiful  fixce 
They  tied  her  veil  and  her  marriage-lace, 

And  drew  on  her  white  feet  her  white 

silk  shoes ; 
Which  were   the   whitest  no  eye  could 

choose ; 

And  over  her  bosom  they  crossed  her 
hands,  — 

"Come  awa}',"  they  said,  "God  under- 
stands !" 

But  there  was  a  silence,  and  nothingthere 
But  silence,  and  scents  of  eglantare. 

And  jessamine  and  I'oses,  and  rosemary. 
And  they  said,  "As  a  lady  should  lie, 
lies  she." 

And  they  held  their  breath  as  they  left 

the  room 
With  a  shudder,  to  glance  at  its  stillness 

and  gloom. 

But  he  who  love<^l  her  too  well  to  dread 
The  sweet,  the  .stately,  and  the  beautiful 
dead. 

He  lit  his  lamp  and  took  the  key 

And  turned  it.   Alone  again — heand  she. 

He  and  she  ;  yet  she  would  not  speak, 
Though  he  kissed,  in  the  old  place,  the 
quiet  cheek. 


He  and  she ;  still  she  did  not  move 
To  any  one  passionate  whisper  of  love. 

Then  he  said:  "Cold  lips,  and   breast 

without  breath ! 
Is  there  no  voice  !  no  language  of  death  ? 

"Dumb  to  the  ear  and  still  to  the  sense, 
But  to  heart  and  soul  distinct,  intense  ? 

"See  now ;  I  will  listen  with  soul,  not  ear ; 
What  was  the  secret  of  dying,  dear? 

"Was  it  the  infinite  wonder  of  all 
That  you  ever  could  let  life's  flower  fall? 

"Or  was  it  a  greater  marvel  to  feel 
The  perfect  calm  o'er  the  agony  steal  ? 

"Was  the  miracle  deeper  to  find  how  deep. 
Beyond  all  dieams,  sank  downward  that 
sleep  ? 

"Did  life  roll  back  its  record,  dear, 
And  show,  as  they  say  it  does,  past  things 
clear  ? 

"0  perfect  dead !  0  dead  most  dear, 
I  hold  the  breath  of  my  soul  to  hear. 

"I  listen,  as  deep  as  to  horrible  hell, 
As  high  as  to  heaven,  and  you  do  not  tell ! 

"Theremustbe  a pleasureiii  dying,  sweet. 
To  make  you  so  placid  from  head  to  feet ! 

"  I  would  tell  you,  darling,  if  I  were  dead, 
And  't  were  your  hot  tears  upon  my  brow 
shed ;  '  • 

"I  would  say,  though  the  angel  of  death 

had  laid 
His  sword  on  my  lips  to  keep  it  unsaid. 

"You  should  not  ask  vainly,  with  stream- 
ing eves, 

Which  of  ail  death's  was  the  chief  sur- 
prise ! 

"The  very  strangest  and  suddenest  thing. 
Of  all   the   surprises   that  dying  must 
bring." 


He  and  she ;  yet  they  would  not  smile.      Ah,  foolish  world  !  0  most  kind  dead !_ 
Though  he  called  her  the  name  she  loved    Though  he  told  me,  who  will  believe  it 


erewhile. 


was  said  ? 


318 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Who  will  believe  what  he  heard  her  say,  |  Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 
AVith  a  sweet,  soft  voice,  in  the  dear  old 
way? 


"The  utmost  wonder  is  this,  —  I  hear. 
And  see  you,  and  love  you,  and  kiss  you, 
dear. 

"And  am  j-our  angel, who  was  your  bride. 
And   know   that,  though   dead,  I    have 
never  died." 


JOHN  A.  DOPiGAN. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

FATE. 

These  withered  hands  are  weak. 

But  they  shall  do  my  bidding,  though 
so  frail ; 
These  lips  are  thin  and  white,  but  shall 
not  fail 
The  appointed  words  to  speak. 

Thy  sneer  I  can  forgive. 

Because  I  kiiowthestrength  of  destiny ; 
Until  my  task  is  done,  I  cannot  die; 

And  then,  I  would  not  live. 


MARY  BOLLES  BRANCH. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  PETRIFIED  FERN. 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 

Grew    a    little    fern-leaf,    green    and 

slender, 
Veining  delicate  and  fibres  tender; 
Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down  so 

low;   : 
Rushes  tall,  anil  moss,  and  grass  grew 

round  it, 
Plavful  sunbeams  darted  in  and  found 

'it. 
Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night,  and 

crowned  it. 
But  no   foot  of  man   e'er   trod  that 

way; 
Earth  was  young  and  keeping  holiday. 


Stately     forests     waved     their     giant 
branches. 

Mountains   hurled   their  snowy   ava- 
lanches. 
Mammoth  creatures  stalked  across  the 
plain ; 

Nature  revelled  in  grand  mysteries  ; 

But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these. 

Did  not  numl)er  with  the  hills  and 
trees, 

Only  grew  and  waved  its  wild  sweet 
way, 

No  one  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 

Earth,  one  time,  put  on  a  fiolic  mood, 
Heaved   the   rocks  and  changed   the 

mighty  motion 
Of  the  deep,   strong  currents  of  the 

ocean ; 
Moved  the  plain  and  shook  the  ha>jglity 

wood. 
Crushed'  the  little  fern  in  soft  moist 

clay. 
Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  awa}'. 
0,  the  long,   long  centuries  since  that 

day ! 
0,  the  agony,  0,  life's  bitter  cost. 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  Mas  lost ! 

Useless !     Lost !     There  came  a  thought- 
ful man 

Searching    Nature's   secrets,    far   and 
deep ; 

From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 
He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  there 
ran 

Fairy  pencillings,  a  quaint  design, 

Veinings  leafage,  fibres  clear  and  fine. 

And  the  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line  ! 

So,   I    think,   God   hides   some   souls 
away. 

Sweetly  to  surprise  us  the  last  day. 


UNKNOWN. 

UNSEEN. 

At  the  spring  of  an  arch  in  the  great 
north  tower. 
High   up  on  the  wall,  is  an  angel's 
head  ; 
And  beneath  it  is  carved  a  lily  flower. 
With  delicate  wings  at  the  side  out- 
spread. 


HARRIET   0.    NELSON. 


;i9 


They  say  that  the  sculjitor  wrought  from 
the  face 
Of  his  youth's  lost  love,  of  his  prom- 
ised bride, 
And  when  he  had  added  the  last  sad 
grace 
To  the  features,  he  dropped  his  chisel 
and  died. 

And  the  worshippers  throng  to  the  shrine 
below, 
And  the  sight-seers  come  with  their 
curious  eyes. 
But  deep  in   the  shadow,   where   none 
may  know 
Its  beauty,  the  gem  of  his  carving  lies. 

Yet   at  early  morn  on  a  midsummer's 
day, 
When  the  sun  is  far  to  the  north,  for 
the  space 
Of  a  few  short  minutes,  there  f^lls  a  ray 
Through  an  amber  pane  on  the  angel's 
face. 

It  was  wrought  for  the  eye  of  God,  and 
it  seems 
That  he  blesses  the  work  of  the  dead 
man's  hand 
Witli   a   ray  of  the   golden    light   that 
streams 
On   the   lost  that   are   found   in    the 
deathless  land. 


HARRIET  0.  NELSON. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE   QUIET  MEETING. 

Dear  fiiend  of  old,  whom  memory  links 
Witli  sunny  hour  and  summer  weather, 

Do  you  witli  me  remember  yet 
That  Sabbath  morn  together, 

"When  straying  from  our  wonted  ways. 
From  ])iayer  and   song   and   priestly 
teaclier, 
Those  kind,  sweet  helps   by  which  the 
Lord  y 

Stoops  to  his  yearning  ci'eature. 

And  led  by  some  faint  sense  of  need 
Which   each  in  each  perceived  unut- 
tered, 


Some  craving  for  an  unknown  good, 
That  in  tlie  spirit  fluttered, 

Our  footsteps  sought  the  humble  house 
Unmarked  by  cross  or  towering  steeple. 

Where  for  their  First-day  gathering  came 
God's  plain  and  simple  people  ? 

The  air  was  soft,  the  sky  was  large. 
The  grass  as  gay  with  golden  flowers 

As  if  the  last  night's  sky  had  fallen 
On  earth  in  starry  showers. 

And,  as  we  walked,  the  apple-trees 
Shed  their  late  bloom  for  every  comer; 

Our  souls  drank  deep  of  joy  and  peace, 
For  it  was  youth  and  summer. 

Yet  through  the  doorway,  rude  and  low, 
The  plain -robed  folk  we  followed  after, 

Our  ste]is,  like  theirs,  demure  and  slow, 
Our  lijjs  as  free  from  laughter. 

We  sat  apart;  but  still  were  near 
As  souls  may  draw  unto  each  other 

Who  seek  through  stronger  love  to  God 
A  nobler  love  to  brother. 

How  deep  the  common  silence  was ; 

How  pure  and  swc^et  those  woman  faces, 
Wliich  jiatience,  gentleness,  and  peace 

Had  stamped  with  heavenly  graces. 

No  noise  ofprayer  came  through  the  hush, 
No   praise   sang   through   the  portals 
lowly, 

Save  meiTy  bird-songs  from  without, 
And  even  those  seemed  holy. 

Then  daily  toil  was  glorified. 

And  love  was  something  rarer,  finer; 

The    whole     earth,    sanctified    through 
Christ, 
And  human  life,  diviner. 

And  when  at  length,  by  lips  of  age. 
The  silent  hour  was  fitl}'  broken. 

Our  hearts  found  echo  in  the  words 
From  wise  experience  spoken. 

Then  at  the  elder's  clasp  of  hand 

We  rose  and  met  beneath  the  portal; 

Some  earthly  dust  our  lives  had  lost. 
And  something  gained  immortal. 

Since  then,  when  sermon,  psalm,  and  rite, 
And  solemn  organ's  tuneful  pealing, 


320 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


All  fail  to  raise  my  sluggish  sense 
To  higher  thought  and  feeling, 

My  mind  goes  back  the  winding  track 
Of  years  whose  Might  hath  left  me  lonely, 

Once  more  my  soul  is  upward  drawn, 
And  hears  the  spirit  only. 


W.  J.  LINTON. 


MTDWrNTTER. 

MinwiNTKR  comes  to-morrow 

My  welcome  guest  to  be  ; 
White-haired,  wide-winged  sorrow, 

With  Christmas  gifts  for  me. 
Thy  angel,  God  1  —  I  thank  thee  still, 
Thy  will  be  done,  thy  better  will ! 

I  thank  thee.  Lord! — the  whiteness 

Of  winter  on  my  heart 
Sliall  keep  some  glint  of  brightness, 

Thougli  sun  and  stars  depart. 
Thou  sniilest  on  the  snow ;  thy  will 
Is  dread  and  drear,  but  lovely  still. 


DEFINITIONS. 
WISDOM. 

The  perfect  sight  of  duty  ;  thought  which 

moulds 
A  rounded  life,  and  its  true  aims  beholds. 

REVERENCE. 

Obeisance  unto  greatness  understood  ; 
The  first  step  of  a  human  life  toward  good. 

SERVICE. 

Think  what  God  doth  for  man  ;  so  mayst 

thou  know 
How  godlike  service  is,  and  serve  also. 

DESPAIR. 

The  shadow  of  a  .slave  who  turns  his  back 
On  the  liglit,  and  cries,  "The  universe 
is  black !  " 


DOL^BT. 

The  mountain's  image  trembling  in  the 

lake: 
Look  up.     Perhaps   the  mountain  does 

not  quake. 

DEFEAT. 

One  of  the  stairs  to  heaven.     Halt  not 

to  count 
What  you  have  trampled  on.     Look  up, 

and  mount. 

FAILURE. 

Who  knows? — Each  year,  as  does   the 

wheat-seed,  dies ; 
And  so  God  harvests  his  eternities. 


FORGIVENESS. 

The  condonation  of  a  wrong.  What 
thoi  ? 

Even  the  wrong-doers  are  our  brother- 
men  ! 


OBSTINACY. 

A  mule  with  blinkers.     Ay,  he  goes  quite 

straight, 
Runs  at  the  gate-post,  and  will  miss  the 

gate. 

PRUDENCE. 

The  saddle-girth  of  valor.     Thou  art  wise 
To  gird  it  well,  but  not  around  thy  eyes. 


PATRIOTISM. 

Not  the  mere  holding  a  great  flag  un- 
furled, 

But  making  it  the  goodliest  in  the 
world. 


NARROWNESS. 

Be  narrow  !  —  as  the  bud,  the  flame,  the 

dart ; 
But  narrow  in  thy  aim,  not  at  thy  heart. 


WEALTH. 

Cornelia's    jewels ;   blind    old    Jlilton'o 

thought ; 
Job's  patience ;  and  the  lesson  Lazanis 

taught. 


MARGARET   J.    PRESTON. 


ERASTUS   W.    ELLSWORTH. 


321 


MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

READY. 

I  WOULD  be  ready,  Lord, 

My  house  in  order  set, 
None  of  tlie  work  thou  gavest  me 

To  do,  uniinished  yet. 

I  would  be  watching,  Lord, 

W;th  latnji  well  trimmed  and  clear, 
Quick  to  tlirow  open  wide  the  door, 

What  time  thou  drawest  near. 

I  would  be  waiting,  Lord, 

Because  I  cannot  know 
If  in  the  night  or  morning  watch, 

I  may  be  called  to  go. 

I  would  be  working.  Lord, 

Each  day,  each  hour,  foi'  thee ; 

Assured  that  thus  1  wait  thee  well, 
Whene'er  thy  coining  be. 

I  would  he  living,  Lord, 

As  ever  in  thine  eye; 
For  whoso  lives  the  nearest  thee 

The  fittest  is  to  die. 


A  BIRD'S  MINISTRY. 

From  his  home  in  an  Eastern  bungalow, 

In  sight  of  the  everlasting  siiow 

Of  the  grand  Himalayas,  row  on  row. 

Thus  wrote  my  friend  :  — 

"I  had  travelled  far 
From  the  Afghan  towers  of  Candahar, 
Tlirough  the  sand-white  plains  of  Sinde- 
Sagar ; 
» 
"  Andonce,  when  the  daily  march  waso'er, 
As  tired  I  sat  in  my  tented  door, 
Hope  failed  me,  as  never  it  failed  before. 

"In  swarming  city,  at  wayside  fane, 
By  the   Indus'   bank,  on  the  scorching 

plain, 
I    had    taught,  —  and   my   teaching  all 

seemed  vain. 


Have  gloomed  their  worship  this  thou- 
sand years. 

"  'For  Christ  and  his  truth  I  stand  alone 
In  the  midst  of  millions:  a  sand-grain 

blown 
Against  yon  temple  of  ancient  stone 

"'As  soon  may  level  it  I'  Faith  forsook 
My  soul,  as  I  turned  on  the  pile  to  look: 
Then  rising,  my  saddened  way  1  took 

"To  its  lofty  roof,  for  the  cooler  air: 
I  gazed,  and  marvelled  ;  —  how  crumbled 

were 
The  walls  I  had  deemed  so  firm  and  fair  ! 

"For,  wedged  in  a  rift  of  the  massive  stone, 
Most  i)lainly  rent  by  its  roots  alone, 
A  beautiful  peepul-tree  had  grown  : 

"Whose  gradual  stresswould  still  expand 
The  crevice,  and  topple  upon  the  sand 
The  temple,  while  o'er  its  wreck  sliould 
stand 

"The  tree  in  its  living  verdure  !  —  Who 
Could  compass  the  thought? — The  bii-d 

that  tlew 
Hitherward,  dropping  a  seed  that  grew, 

"Did  more  to  shiver  this  ancient  wall 
Than  earthquake,  ■ —  war,  —  simoon,  —  or 

all 
Tlie  centuries,  in  their  lapse  and  fall ! 

"Then  I  knelt  by  the  riven  granite  there. 
And  my  soul  shook  ofl'  its  weight  of  care, 
As  my  voice  rose  clear  on  the  tropic  air  :  — • 

"'The  living  seeds  I  have  dropped  remain 
In  the  cleft :  Lord,  quicken  with  dew  and 

rain, 
Then  tem[de  and  mosque  shall  be  rent 

in  twain!'" 


ERASTUS  W.  ELLSWORTH. 

[U.    S.    A-l 

WHAT  IS  THE  USE? 


"  'No  glimmerof  light  (I  sighed)  appears ;    I  SAW  a  man,  by  some  accounted  wise, 
The  Moslem's  Fate  and  the  Buddhist's  :  For  some  things  said  and  done  before 
fears  I  their  eyes, 

21 


322 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Quite  overcast,  and  in  a  restless  muse, 
Pacing  a  path  about. 
And  often  giving  out : 
"What  is  the  use?" 

Then  I,  with  true  respect :  What  meanest 

thou 
By  those  strange  words,  and  that  unset- 
tled brow? 
Health,  wealth,  the  fair  esteem  of  ample 
views. 
To  these  things  thou  art  born 
But  he,  as  one  forlorn  : 
"What  is  the  use?" 

"I  have  surveyed  the  sages  and  their 

books, 
Man,  and  the  natural  world  of  woods  and 

bi'ooks. 
Seeking  that  perfect  good  that  I  would 
choose ; 
But  find  no  perfect  good, 
Settled  and  understood. 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"Life,  in  a  poise,  hangs  trembling  on  the 

beam. 
Even  in  a  breath  boundingto  each  extreme 
Of  joy  and  sorrow;  therefore  I  refuse 
AH  beaten  ways  of  bliss, 
And  oidv  answer  this : 
What'is  the  use? 

"The  hoodwinked  world  is  seeking  hap- 
piness. 
'Which  way!'  they   cry,    'here?'   'no!' 

'there?'  'who  can  guess?' 
And  so  they  grope,  and  grope,  and  gi'ope, 
and  cruise 
On,  on,  till  life  is  lost. 
At  bliudnian's  with  a  ghost. 
What  is  the  use? 

"Love  first,  with  most,  then  wealth,  dis- 
tinction, fame. 
Quicken  tlie  l)lood  and  spirit  on  the  game. 
Some  try  them  all,  and  idl  alike  accuse  : 
'I  have  been  all,' said  one, 
'And  find  that  all  is  none.' 
Wliat  is  the  use? 

"Ill  woman's  love  we  sweetly  are  undone. 
Willing  to  attract,  but  harder  to  b(^  won. 
Harder  to  keep  is  she  whose  love  we  choose. 

Loves  are  like  Howers  that  grow 

111  soils  on  fire  Ijelow. 
What  is  the  use? 


"Some  j>ray  for  wealth,  and  seem  to  pray 

aright; 
They  heap  until  themselves  are  out  of 

sight; 
Yet  stand,  in  charities,  not  over  shoes, 
And  ask  of  their  old  age 
As  an  old  ledger  jiage, 
What  is  the  use?  .... 

"The  strife  for  fame  and  the  high  praise 

of  power. 
Is  as  a  man,  who,  panting  up  a  tower. 
Bears  a  great  stone,  then,  straining  all  his 
thews. 
Heaves  it,  and  sees  it  make 
A  splashing  in  a  lake. 
What  is  the  use  ? .  .  .  . 

' '  Should  some  new  star,  in  the  fair  even- 
ing sky. 
Kindle  a  blaze,  startling  so  keen  an  eye 
Of  llamings  eminent,  athwart  the  dews. 
Our  thoughts  would  say,  Ko  doubt 
That  star  will  soon  burn  out. 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"Who'll  care  for  me,  when  I  am  dead 

and  gone  ? 
Not  many  now,  and  surely,  soon,  not  one ; 
And  should  I  sing  like  an  immortal  Muse, 
Men,  if  they  read  the  line, 
Read  for  their  good,  not  mine  ; 
W'hat  is  the  use  ?  .  .  .  . 

"Spirit  of  Beauty!     Breath  of  golden 

lyres ! 
Perpetual  tremble  of  immortal  wires  ! 
Divinely  torturing  rapture  of  the  Muse  ! 
Conspicuous  wretchedness ! 
Thou  stariy,  sole  success !  — 
What  is  the  use  ? 

' '  Doth  not  all  struggle  tell,  upon  its  brow, 
That  he  who  makes  it  is  not  easy  now, 
But  hopes  to  be?     Vain  hope  that  dost 
abuse ! 
Coquetting  with  thine  eyes. 
And  fooling  liim  who  sighs. 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"Go  pry  the  lintels  of  the  pyramids; 
Lift  the  old  kings' mysterious  coffin  dills — 
This  dust  was  theirs  whose  names  these 
stones  confuse, 
These  mighty  monuments 
Of  mighty  discontents. 
What  is  the  use? 


ERASTUS   W.    ELLSWORTH. 


nctn 


"  Did  not  he  vSimi  it  all ,  whose  Gate  of  Pearls 
Blazed    royal    Upliir,  Tyre,  and   Syrian 

girls,  — 
Tlie  great,  wise,  famous  monarch  of  the 
Jews? 
Though  rolled  in  grandeur  vast. 
He  said  of  all,  at  last : 
What  is  the  use  ? 

"0,  but  to  take,  of  life,  the  natural  good. 
Even  as  a  lierinit  caverned  in  a  wood, 
More  sweetly  tills  my  sober-suited  views. 

Than  sweating  to  attain 

Any  luxurious  pain. 
What  is  the  use? 

•'Give  me  a  hermit's  life,  without  his 

beads,  — 
His  lantern-jawed,  and  moral-mouthing 

creeds ; 
Systems   and   creeds   the  natural  heart 
abuse. 
What  need  of  any  book, 
Or  spiritual  ci'ook  ? 
Wliat  is  the  use  ? 

"I  love,  and  God  is  love ;  and  I  behold 
Man,  Nature,  God,  one   triple  chain  of 

gold,  — 
Nature  in  all  sole  oracle  and  muse. 
What  should  I  seek,  at  all. 
More  than  is  natural  ? 
What  is  the  use?" 

Seeing  this  man  so  heathenly  inclined,  — 
So  wilted  in  the  mood  of  a  good  mind, 
I  felt  a  kind  of  heat  of  earnest  thought; 
And  studying  in  reply. 
Answered  him,  eye  to  eye: 

Thou  dost  amaze  me  that  thou  dost  mis- 
take 
The  wanderingri  vers  for  the  fountain  lake. 
"What  is  the  end  of  living? — happiness? 

An  end  that  none  attain, 

Argues  a  purpose  vain. 

Plainly,  this  world  is  not  a  scope  for  bliss. 
But  duty.     Yet  we  see  not  all  that  is. 
Or  may   be,    some   day,   if  we  love  the 
light. 
W^hat  man  is,  in  desires, 
Whispers  where  man  aspires. 

But  what  and  where  are  we?  what  now 
—  to-day  ? 


Souls  on  a  globe  that  spins  our  lives 

away,  — 
A   multitudinous  world,  where  Heaven 
and  Hell, 
Strangely  in  battle  met. 
Their  gonfalons  have  set. 

Dust  though  we  are,  and  shall  return  to 

dust. 
Yet  being  born  to  battles,  fight  we  must ; 
Under  which  ensign  is  our  only  choice. 

We  know  to  wage  our  best, 

God  only  knows  the  rest. 

Then  since  we  see  about  us  sin  and  dole, 
And  some  things  good,  why  not,  with 

hand  and  soul, 
W^restle  and  succor  out  of  wrong  and 
sorrow,  — 
Grasping  the  swords  of  strife, 
iLaking  the  most  of  life  ? 

Yea,  all  that  we  can  wield  is  worth  the  end, 
If  sought  as  God's  and  man's  most  loyal 

friend. 
Naked  we  come  into  the  world,  and  take 

Weapons  of  various  skill,  — 

Let  us  not  use  them  ill. 

As   for   the   creeds.  Nature   is  dark  at 

best; 
And  darker  still  is  the  deep  human  breast. 
Therefore    consider  well    of  creed^  and 
books. 
Lest  thou  niayst  somewhat  fail 
Of  things  beyond  the  vail. 

Nature  was  dark  to  the  dim  starry  ago 
Of  wistful  Job  :  and  that  Athenian  sa;-e. 
Pensive   in   piteous  thought    of   Faith's 
distress ; 
For  still  she  cried,  with  tears : 
"More  light,  ye  crystal  spheres  !" 

But   rouse  thee,  man !     Shake   off  this 

hideous  death ! 
Be  man  !     Stand  up  !     Draw  in  a  mighty 

breath ! 
This  world  has  quite  enough  emasculate 
hands. 
Dallying  with  doubt  and  sin. 
Come — here  is  work — begin ! 

Gome,  here  is  work  —  and  a  rank  field— ^ 

begin. 
Put  thou  thine  edge  to  the  great  weeds 

of  sin ; 


324 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


So  slialt  thou  find  the  use  of  life,  and  see  |  To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes 


Thy  Lord,  at  set  of  sun, 
Approach  and  say,  "Well  done  !" 

This  at  the  last :  They  clutch  the  sapless 

fruit, 
Ashes  and  dust  of  the  Dead  Sea,   who 

suit 
Their  course  of  life  to  compass  happiness ; 
But  be  it  understood 
That,  to  be  greatly  good, 
All  is  the  use. 


UNKNOWN. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 
(From  "  The  London  Punch.  ") 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's 
bier, 
You,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont 
to  trace, 
Broad   for  the   self-complacent    British 
sneer. 
His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  far- 
rowed face. 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt, 
bristling  hair, 
Hisgarbuneouth,  hisbearingill  at  ease. 
His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair. 
Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art   to 
please. 

You,  whose  smart   pen   backed   up   the 
pencil's  laugh. 
Judging  eai'h  step,  as  though  the  way 
were  plain ; 
Eeckless,  so  it  could  point  its  ])aragraph. 
Of  chief's  perplexity  or  people's  pain. 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  wind- 
ing-sheet 
The  stars  and  stripes  he  lived  to  rear 
anew. 
Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and 
feet. 
Say,  scurril-jester,  is  there   room   for 
you  ? 

Yes,  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my 
sneer, 
To    lame   my  pencil,  and  confute  my 
pen,  — 


peer. 
This  rail-splitter  a  true-born  king  of 
men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learned  to  rue, 

Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose, 

How  his  quaint   wit   made   home-truth 

seem  more  true. 

How,  iron -like,  his    temper  grew   by 

blows. 

How  humble,  yet  howhopeful  he  could  be ; 

How   in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the 
same : 
Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he. 

Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  leverish  for  fame. 


He  went  about  his  work, — such   woik 
as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and 
hand,  — 
As  one  who  knows,  where  there  's  a  task 
to  do, 
Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good 
grace  command ; 

"Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the 
burden  grow, 
That  God  makes  instruments  to  work 
his  will. 
If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 
Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good 
and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle  on  the  side 
That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and 
Right's, 
As  in  his  ptjasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 
His  warfiire  with  rude  Nature's  thwart- 
inij  mights,  — 


The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil. 
The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumberers 
axe. 
The  rapid  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's 
toil, 
The  prairie,  hiding  the  mazed  wander- 
er's tracks. 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling 
bear,  — 
Such  were  the  needs  that  helped  his 
youth  to  train : 


MES.   MILES. 


^^^5 


OZ( 


Rough  culture, — but   such   trees   large 
fruit  may  bear, 
If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and 
grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to  do, 
And  lived  to  do  it ;  four  long-suffering 
years' 
111 -fate,     ill-feeling,     ill -report,     lived 
through, 
And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change 
to  clieers. 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise. 
And  took  both  with  the  same  unwaver- 
ing mood : 
Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling 
da}'s. 
And  secmeil  to  touch  the   goal   from 
where  he  stood, 

A  felon  had,  between  the  goal  and  him, 
Keached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger 
prest,  — 
And  those  perplexed  and   patient  eyes 
were  dim. 
Those  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were 
laid  to  rest ! 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen, 
When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift 
eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good- 
will to  men. 

The  Q\d  World  and  the  New,  from  sea 
to  sea,  ' 

Utter    one    voice    of    sympathy   and 
shame! 
Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last 
beat  high ; 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph 
came. 

A  deed  accurst !   Strokes  have  been  struck 
before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men 
doubt 
If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore  ; 
But  thy  foul  Clime,  like  Cain's,  stands 
darkly  out. 

Vile  hand,  that   brandest  murder  on  a 
strife, 
Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly 
striven ; 


And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a 
life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  for- 


MES.  MILES. 


HYMN  TO  CHRIST. 

Thou,  who  didst  stoop  below 

To  drain  the  cup  of  woe. 
Wearing  the  form  of  frail  mortality. 

Thy  blessed  labors  done, 

Thy  crown  of  victory  won. 
Hast    passed   from    earth, — passed    to 
thy  throne  on  high. 

Our  eyes  behold  thee  not, 
Yet  luist  thou  not  forgot 
Those  who  have  placed  their  hope,  their 
trust,  in  thee: 
Before  thy  Father's  face 
Thou  liast  prepared  a  place, 
That  where  thou  art,  there  may  they  also 
be. 

It  was  no  path  of  flowers. 
Through  this  dark  world  of  ours, 

Beloved  of  the  Father,  thou  didst  tread  ; 
And  shall  we  in  dismay 
Shrink  from  the  narrow  way. 

When  clouds  and  darkness  are  around  it 
spread  ? 

0  Thou  who  art  our  life. 
Be  with  us  through  the  strife ; 
Was  not  thy  head  by  earth's  fierce  tem- 
pests bowed? 
Eaise  thou  our  eyes  above 
To  see  a  Father's  love 
Beam,  like  a  bow  of  promise,  through  the 
cloud. 


E'en  through  the  awful  gloom. 
Which  hovers  o'er  the  tomb. 
That  light  of  love  our  guiding  star  shall 
be;  _ 
Our  spirits  shall  not  dread 
The  shadowy  way  to  tread, 
Friend  !  Guardian  !  Saviour !  whicli  doth 
lead  to  thee ! 


32G 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


F.  M.  FINCH. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

By  the  flow  of  tlie  inland  river, 
Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  tied, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave -grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  tlie  judgment  day  ; — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue;" 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 
Tlie  desolate  inourners  go. 
Lovingly  laden  with  Howers 
Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
AVaiting  the  judgment  day; — 
Under  the  i-oses,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 
The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch,  impartially  tender. 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all; 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day  ;^ 
'Bioidered  with  gold,  the*BIue; 
Mellowed  with' gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  sumnier  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day;  — 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 


Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding. 

The  genei-ous  deed  was  done  ;  " 

J 11  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 

No  braver  battle  Avas  won  ; 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 

Iniiler  the  blossoms, the  Blue; 
I'nder  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 

_<)r  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 

Tlu'v  banish  our  anger  forever 

Wiieii  tUey  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead  ! 


Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
AVaiting  the  judgment  day  ;  — 
Love  and  teai-s  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


UNKNOWN. 


THE  STATUE. 

Ijf  Athens,  when   all  learning  centred 

there. 
Men  leared   a   column  of  surpassing 

height 
In  honor  of  Minerva,  wise  and  fair, 
And  on  the  top,  that  dwindled  to  the 

sight, 
A  statue  of  the  goddess  was  to  stand. 
That  wisdom   might  obtain   in   all  the 

land. 


And  he  who,  Avith  the  beauty  in  his  heart. 
Seeking   in    faultless   work    immortal 

youth, 
AVould  mould  this  statue  with  the  finest 

art. 
Making  the  wintry  marble  glow  with 

truth. 
Should  gain  the  prize.     Two  sculptors 

sought  the  fame ; 
The  prize  they  craved  was  an  enduring 

name. 

Alcamenes  soon  can'ed  his  little  best ; 
But      Phidias,     beneath     a     dazzling 
thought 
That  like  a  bright  sun  in  a  cloudless  west 
Lit  up  his  wide,  great  soul,  witli  pure 
love  wrought 
A  statue,  and  its  face  of  changeless  stone 
With  calm,  far-sighted  wisdom  towered 
and  shone. 

Then  to  be  judged  the  lal>ors  were  un- 
veiled ; 
But  at  the  marble  thought,  that    by 
degi'ees 

OfhardshipPhidias  cut,  thepeople  railed. 
"The  lines  are  coarse;  the  form  too 
large,"  said  these; 

"And  he  who  sends  this  rough  result  of 
haste 

Sends  scorn,  and  offers  insult  to  our  taste." 


JOHN  •BUREOUGHS.  —  SAEAH  AVOOLSEY. 


Alcairienes'  praised  work  was  lifted  liigh 
Upon  the  capital  wlieie  it  niif,dit  stand  ; 
But  there  it  seemed  too  small,  and  'gainst 
the  sky 
Had  no  proportion  from  the  uplooking 
land ; 
So  it  was  lowered,  and  (juickly  put  aside, 
Aud  the  scorned  thought  was  mounted 
to  be  tried. 

Surprise  swept  o'er  thefaees  of  the  crowd, 
Aud  changed  them  as  a  sudden  breeze 
may  change 
A  field  of  tickle  grass,  and  long  and  loud 
Their  mingled  shouts  to  see  a  sight  so 
strange. 
The  statue  stood  completed  in  its  place, 
Each   coarse   line   melted   to   a  line   of 
gi'ace. 

So  bold,  great  actions,  that  are  seen  too 
near. 
Look  rash  and  foolish  to  unthinking 
eyes; 

They  need  the  past  for  distance  to  ap- 
pear 
In  their  true  grandeur.     Let  us  yet  be 
wise 

And  not  too  soon  our   neighbor's  deed 
malign. 

For  what  seems  coarse  is  often  good  and 
fine. 


JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

[O.    S.    A.] 

WAITING. 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait. 
Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea ; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For  lo  !  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  T  make  dela5's. 
For  what  avails  this  eager  pace  ? 

I  stand  amid  the  eteinal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day. 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me  ; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astiay. 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 


What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years  ; 
My  heart  shall  rea])  where  it  has  sown, 

Aud  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  Avaters  know  their  own  and  draw 
Thebrook  that  springsin  yonder  height; 

So  Hows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delight. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky  ; 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 


SAEAH  WOOLSEY. 

[u.  s.  a] 

IN  THE  MIST. 

Sitting  all  day  in  a  silver  mist, 
In  silver  silence  all  the  day. 
Save  for  the  low,  soft  hiss  of  spray 

And  the  lisp  of  .sands  by  waters  kissed. 
As  the  tide  draws  up  the  bay. 

Little  I  hear  and  nothing  I  see, 

Wrajiped  in  that  veil  by  fairies  spun  ; 
The  solid  earth  is  vanished  for  me 
And  the  shining  hours  speed  noiseles.sly, 
A  woof  of  shadow  and  sun. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  shifting  veil 

A  magical  bark,  by  the  sunbeams  lit, 
Flits  like  a  dream  —  or  seems  lo  Hit — 

With  a  golden  prow  and  a  gossamer  sail. 
And  the  waves  make  room  for  it. 

A  fair,  swift  bark  from  some  radiant  realm. 
Its  diamond  cordage  cuts  the  sky 
In  glittering  lines,  all  silently 

A  seeming  sjiirit  holds  the  helm 
And  steers.     AVill  he  pass  me  by  ? 

Ah  !  not  for  me  is  the  vessel  here, 

Noiseless  and  swift  as  a  sea-bird's  flight 
She    swerves   and    vanishes  from  the 
sight ; 

No  flap  of  sail,  no  parting  cheer,  — 
She  has  passed  into  the  light. 

Sitting  some  day  in  a  deejiei'  mist. 
Silent,  alone,  some  other  day, 


828 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


An  unknown  bark,  from  an  unknown 
bay, 
By  unknown  waters  hipped  and  kissed, 
Shall  near  me  through  the  spray. 

No  flap  of  sail,  no  scraping  of  keel, 

Sliadowy,  dim,  with  a  banner  dark. 
It  will  hover,  will  pause,  and  I  shall  feel 
A  hand  which  grasps  me,  and  shivering 
steal 
To  the  cold  strand,  and  embark. 

Embark  for  that  far,  mysterious  I'ealni 
Where  the  fatlioniless,  trackless  waters 

flow. 
Sliall  1  feel  a  Presence  dim,  and  know 
Thy  dear  hand,  Lord,  upon  the  helm, 

Nor  be  afraid  to  go  ? 
And  through  black   waves  and  stormy 
blast 
And  out  of  the  fog-wreaths,  dense  and 

dun. 
Guided  by  thee,  shall  the  vessel  run. 
Gain  the  fair  haven,  night  being  past. 
And  anchor  in  the  sun? 


JOHN  JAMES  riATT. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

THE  MORNING  STREET. 

Alone  I  walk  the  morning  street, 
Filled  with  the  silence  vague  and  sweet : 
All  seems  as  strange,  as  still,  as  dead, 
As  if  unnumlicrcd  years  had  lied. 
Letting  the  noisy  Babel  lie 
Breathless  and  (lunib  against  the  sky ; 
The  liglit  wind  walks  with  me  alone 
Where  the  hot  day  flame-like  was  blown, 
Where  the  wheels  roared,  thi;  dust  was 

beat  ; 
The  dew  is  in  the  morning  street. 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 

Along  this  niigiity  corridor 

While  the  noon  shines? — the  hurrying 

crowd 
Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud,^ — 
Tlie  myriad  faces, — hearts  that  beat 
No  more  in  the  d(^';erted  street? 
Tiiose  f()otste]is  in  their  dreaming  maze 
Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days ; 


Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 
I  n  rising  suns  long  set  in  tears ; 
Those  hearts,  — far  in  the  Past  they  beat. 
Unheard  within  the  morning  street. 

.\  city  of  the  world's  gray  prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert  fur  from  Time, 
Where  noiseless  ages,  gliding  through. 
Have  only  sifted  sand  and  dew,  — 
Yet  a  mysterious  hand  of  man 
Lj'ing  on  all  the  haunted  plan. 
The  jjassions  of  the  human  heart 
Quickening  the  marble  breast  of  Ail,  — 
Were  not  more  strange  to  one  who  hrst 
Upon  its  ghostly  silence  burst 
Than  this  vast  (juiet  where  the  tide 
Of  life,  upheaved  on  either  side. 
Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  human  waves  the  morning  street. 
Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 
Breaks  through  the  charmed  solitude  : 
Tills  silent  stone,  to  music  won, 
Shall  murmur  to  the  rising  sun  ; 
The  busy  ])lace,  in  dust  and  heat, 
Shall  rush  with  wheels  and  swarm  with 

feet ; 
The  Arac  hiie-threads  of  Purpose  stream 
Unseen  within  the  morning  gleam  ; 
The  life  shall  move,  the  death  be  plain  ; 
The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train, 
Together,  face  to  f  ce,  shall  meet 
And  pass  within  the  moniing  street. 


EICHAED  W.  GILDER. 

[U.    S.    A.] 

DAWN. 

The  night  was  dark,  though  sometimes 

a  faint  star 
A  little  while  a  little  space  made  bright. 
The  night  was  long  and  like  an   iron 

bar 
I^ay  heavy  on  the  land :  till  o'er  the  sea 
Slowly,  within    the    East,  there  grew  a 

light 
Which  half  was  starlight,  and  half  seemed 

to  be 
The   herald    of    a   greater.       The    pale 

white 
Turned  slowly  to  pale  rose,  an<l  up  the 

height 
Of  heaven    slowly   climbed.     The  gray 


WILLIAM   BELL   SCOTT. 


329 


Rose-colored  like  the  sky.  A  white  gull 
tlew 

Straight  toward  the  utmost  boundary  of 
the  East, 

Where  slowly  the  rose  gathered  and  in- 
creased. 

It  was  as  on  the  opening  of  a  door 

By  one  that  in  his  hand  a  lamp  doth 
hold, 

W^hose  tiame  is  hidden  by  the  garment's 
fold, — 

The  still  air  moves,  the  wide  room  is  less 
dim. 

More  bright  the  East  became,  the  ocean 
turned 

Dark  and  more  dark  against  the  bright- 
ening .sky,  — 

Sharper  against  the  sky  the  long  sea  line. 

The  hollows  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 

Were  green  like  leaves  whereon  no  sun 
doth  shine. 

Though  white  the  outer  branches  of  the 
tree. 

From  rose  to  red  the  level  heaven  burned  ; 

Then  sudden,  as  if  a  sword  fell  from  on 
high, 

A  blade  of  gold  flashed  on  the  horizon's 
rim. 


THE  SOWER. 


A  Sower  went  forth  to  sow, 

His  eyes  were  wild  with  woe; 

He  crushed  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet. 

Nor  smelt  the  perfume,  warm  and  sweet, 

That  prayed  for  pity  everywhere. 

He  came  to  a  field  that  was  liarried 

By  iron,  and  to  heaven  laid  bare : 

He  shook  the  seed  that  he  carried 

O'er  that  brown  and  bladeless  place. 

He  shook  it,  as  God  shakes  hail 

Over  a  doomed  land. 

When  lightnings  interlace 

The  sky  and  the  earth,  and  his  wand 

Of  love  is  a  thunder-flail. 

Thus  did  that  Sower  sow  ; 
His  seed  was  iiuman  blood. 
And  teai's  of  women  and  men. 
And  I,  who  near  him  stood. 
Said  :  When  the  crop  comes,  then 
There  will  be  sobbing  and  sighing, 
Weeping  and  wailing  and  crying, 
And  a  w  oe  that  is  worse  than  woe. 


II. 

It  was  an  autumn  day 

When  next  I  went  that  way. 

And  what,  think  you,  did  I  see  ? 

What  was  it  thatl  heard? 

The  song  of  a  sweet-voiced  bird  ? 

Nay,  — but  the  songs  of  many, 

Tlirilled  through  with  praising  prayer. 

Of  all  those  voices  not  any 

Were  sad  of  memory : 

And  a  sea  of  sunlight  flowed. 

And  a  golden  harvest  glowed! 

On  my  face  I  fell  down  there ; 
I  hid  my  weeping  eyes, 
I  said :  0  God,  thou  art  wise ! 
And  I  thank  thee,  again  and  again, 
For  the  Sower  whose  name  is  Pain. 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT. 


THE  DANCE. 

(From  "  The  Witch's  Ballad.") 

0,  I  HAE  come  from  far  away, 
Fi'om  a  warm  land  far  away, 
A  southern  land  ayont  the  sea, 
With  sailor  lads  about  the  mast 
Merry  and  canny  and  kiiid  to  me. 

And  I  hae  been  to  yon  town. 

To  try  my  luck  in  yon  town ; 
Nort,  and  Mysie,  Elsjue  too. 
Right  braw  we  were  to  pass  the  gate 
Wi'  gowden  clasps  on  girdles  blue. 

Mysie  smiled  wi'  miming  mouth. 

Innocent  mouth,  miming  mouth; 
Elspie  wore  her  scarlet  gown, 
Nort's  gray  eyes  were  unco'  gleg. 
My  Castile  comb  was  like  a  crown. 

We  walked  abreast  all  up  the  street, 

Into  tlie  market  u])  the  street : 
Our  hair  wi'  mar3'golds  was  wound. 
Our  bodices  wi'  love-knots  laced, 
Our  merchandise  wi'  tansy  bound. 

Nort  had  chickens,  I  had  cocks, 

GamesouK^  cocks,  loud-crowing  cocks; 
Mysie  ducks,  and  Elspie  drakes. 
For  a  wee  groat  or  a  pound. 
We  lost  nae  time  wi'  gives  and  takes. 


330 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Lost  nae  time,  for  weel  we  knew, 

In  our  sleeves  fu'  weel  we  knew. 
When  the  jiloaming  came  that  night, 
Duck  nor  drake,  nor  hen  nor  cock, 
Would  be  found  by  candlelight. 

When  our  chaffering  a'  was  done, 
All  was  paid  for,  sold  and  done, 
We  drew  a  glove  on  ilka  hand, 
We  sweetly  curtsied  eatdi  to  each, 
And  deftly  danced  a  saraband. 

The  market  lasses  looked  and  laughed, 

Left  their  gear  and  looked  and  laughed; 
They  made  as  they  would  join  the  game, 
But  soon  their  mithers,  wild  and  wiid, 
Wi'  whack  and  screech  they  stopped  the 
same. 

Sae  loud  the  tongues  o'  raudies  grew, 

The  flitin'  and  the  skirlin'  grew, 
At  a'  the  windows  i'  the  place, 
Wi'  spoons  and  knives,  wi'  needle  or  awl. 
Was  thrust  out  ilka  hand  and  face. 

And  down  each  stair  thej'thronged  anon ; 

Gentle,  simjile,  thronged  anon ; 
Souter  and  tailor,  frowzy  Nan, 
The  ancient  widow  j'ouug  again 
Simpering  behind  her  fan. 

Without  choice,  against  their  will. 
Doited,  dazed  against  their  will. 
The  market  lassie  and  her  niither, 
The  farmer  and  his  husbandman, 
Hand  in  hand  danced  a'  thegether. 

Slow  at  first,  but  faster  soon. 

Still  increasin'  wild  and  fast. 
Hoods  and  mantles,  hats  and  hose, 
lilindly  doffed,  and  frae  them  cast, 
Lc(t  them  naked,  heads  and  toes. 

They  would  hae  torn  us  limb  frae  limb. 

Dainty  limb  frae  dainty  limb ; 
But  never  ane  o'  them  could  win 
Across  the  line  that  1  had  diawn 
Wi'  bleeding  thumb  a-witherskin. 

There  was  Jeff  the  provost's  son, 

Jeff  the  provost's  only  son  ; 
There  was  Father  Auld  iiimsel', 
The  Lombard  frae  the  hostelrie, 
And  the  lawyer  Peter  Fell. 

All  goodly  men  we  singled  out, 
Waled  them  well  and  singled  out, 


And  drew  them  b}'  the  left  hand  in,  — 
Mysie  the  priest,  and  Elspie  won 
The  Lombard,  Nort  the  lawyer  curie, 
And  I  my  niysel'  the  provost's  son. 

Then  wi'  cantrip  kisses  seven, 

Thiee  times  round  wi'  kisses  seven, 
Warped  and  woven  there  spun  we. 
Arms  and  legs  and  flaming  hair, 
Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  sea. 

Like  the  wind  that  sucks  the  sea. 

Over  and  in  and  on  the  sea. 
Good  sooth,  it  was  a  mad  delight ; 
And  ilka  man  o'  all  the  four 
Shut  his  eyes  and  laughed  outright,  — 

Laughed  as  long  as  they  had  breath. 

Laughed  while  they  had  sense  or  breath ; 
And  close  about  us  coiled  a  mist 
Of  gnats  and  midges,  wasps  and  flies ; 
Like  the  whirlwind  shaft  it  rist. 

Drawn  up  was  I  right  off  my  feet, 

Lito  the  mist  and  off  my  feet; 
And,  dancing  on  each  chimnej'-top, 
I  saw  a  thousand  darling  imps 
Keeping  time  wi'  skip  and  hop. 

We  '11  gang  ance  niair  to  yon  town, 

Wi'  better  luck  to  yon  town  : 
We'll  walk  in  silk  and  cramocsie. 
And  I  shall  wed  the  prevost's  son ; 
My  lady  o'  the  town  I  '11  be ! 

J'or  I  was  born  a  crowned  king's  child, 

Born  and  nursed  a  king's  child, 
King  o'  a  land  ayont  the  sea. 
Where  the  Blackamoor  kissed  me  first 
And  taught  me  art  and  glamourie. 

The  Lombard  shall  be  Els]ne's  man, 

Elspie's  gowden  husbandman ; 
Nort  shall  take  the  lawyer's  hand ; 
The  priest  shall  swear  another  vow. 
We  '11  dance  again  the  saraband ! 


JOSEPH  BREXXAN. 


COME  TO  ME,   DEAREST. 

Come  to  me,  dearest,  1  'm  lonely  with- 
out thee, 

Day-time  and  night-time,  I  'm  thinking 
about  thee ; 


CHARLES    Ct.    LELAND. 


331 


Niglit-time  and   day-time,   in  dreams  I 

behoUl  tliee ; 
Unwelcome  the  waking  wliich  ceases  to 

fold  thee. 
Come   to   me,    darling,    my   sorrows   to 

lighten. 
Come   in    thy   beauty   to   bless  and   to 

brighten  ; 
Come  in  thy  womanhood,  meekly  and 

lowly, 
Come  intliy  lovingness,  queenly  and  holy. 

Swallows  will  flit  round  the  desolate 
ruin. 

Telling  of  spring  and  its  joyous  renew- 
ing 

And  thoughts  of  thy  love,  and  its  mani- 
fold treasure, 

Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  promise  of 
])leasure. 

0  Springof  my  spirit,  0  Mayof  mybosom. 

Shine  out  on  my  soul,  till  it  bourgeon 
and  blossom ; 

The  waste  of  my  life  has  a  rose-root 
within  it. 

And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine 
can  win  it. 


Figure  that  moves  like  a  song  through 

the  even, 
Features  lit  up  by  a  reflex  of  heaven  ; 
Eyes  like   the  skies  of  poor  Erin,  our 

mother, 
Where  shadow  and  sunshine  are  chas- 
ing each  other ; 
Smiles  coining  seldom,  but  childlike  and 

simple, 
Planting   in    each   rosy   cheek   a   sweet 

dimple;  — 
0,  thanks  to  the  Saviour,  that  even  thy 

seeming 
Is    left    to    the    exile    to    brighten    his 

dreaming. 

You  have  been  glad  when  you  knew  I 

was  gladdened ; 
Dear,  are  you   sad  now  to   hear  I   am 

saddened? 
Our  hearts  ever  answer  in  tune  and  in 

time,  love. 
As  octave  to  octave,  and  rhyme  unto 

rhyme,  love : 
I   cannot  weep  but  your  tears   will   be 

flowing, 
You  cannot  smile  but  my  cheek  will  be 

glowing ; 


I  would  not  die  without  you  at  my  side, 

love. 
You  will  not  linger  when   I  shall  have 

died,  love. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  ere  1  die  of  my  sorrow, 
Rise  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to- 
morrow ; 
Strong,    swift,    and   fond  as   the  words 

which  I  speak,  love. 
With  a  song  on  your  lip  and  a  smile  on 

your  cheek,  love. 
Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is 

weary,  — 
Haste,    for   my  spirit   is   sickened   and 

dreary,  — 
Come  to  the  arms  Avhich  alone  should 

caress  thee. 
Come  to  the  l^art  that  is  throbbing  to 

press  thee  ! 


CHARLES  G.  LELAND. 

.   [U.    S.    A.] 

THE  MUSIC-LESSON  OF  CONmCIirS. 

The  music-lesson  of  Koung-tseu  the  wise. 
Known    as    Confucius    in    the    western 
world. 

Of  all  the  sages  of  the  Flowery  Land 
None  knew  so  well  as  great  Confucius 
The  ancient  rites ;  and  when  his  mother 

died. 
Three   years  he   mourned  alone   beside 

her  tomb 
As  the  Ohl  Custom  bade,  nor  did  he  miss 
A  single  detail  of  the  dark  old  forms 
Required  of  the   bereaved,  for   he   had 

made 
Himself  a  model  for  all  living  men  : 
A  minor  and  a  pattern  of  the  Past. 

Now  when  the  years  of  mourning  with 

their  rites 
Were  at  an  end,  Confucius  came  forth 
And  wandered  as  of  old  with  other  men. 
Giving  his  counsel  unto  many  kings ; 
But  still  tlie  hand  of  grief  was  on  his 

heart, 
And  his  dark  hue  set  forth  his  darkened 

liours. 
To  drive  away  these  sorrows  from  his 

soul. 


O'>o 


SONGS    OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Keinembering  that  music  had  been  made 
A  iu»ral  motive  in  the  golden  books 
OF  wisdom  by  the  sacred  ancestors, 
He  played  upon  the  Kin — the  curious 

lute 
Invented  bj'  Fou-Hi  in  days  of  old  ; 
Fou-Hi  of  the  bull's  head  and  dragon's 

form, 
The    Lord    of    Learning    who    upraised 

mankind 
From  being  silent  brutes  to  singing  men. 

In  vain  Confucius  played  upon  the  lute; 
H.'  found  that   music  would   not  be  to 

him 
What  it  had  been  of  old, — a  pastime 

gay : 
For   he   had  borne  through  three  long 

years  of  grief         . 
Stupendous  knowledge,  and  his  mighty 

soul, 
Grasping  the  lines  which  link  all  earthly 

lore. 
Had  been  by  suffering  raised  to  greater 

power : 
For  he  who  knows  and  suffers,  if  he  will 
May   raise   himself    unnumbered   scales 

o'er  man. 

The  music   spoke  no  more   its  wonted 

sounds. 
Rut   whispered   mysteries   in  a    broken 

tongue 
Which  urged   him  sorely.     Then   Con- 
fucius said : 
"  0  secret  Music  !  saci-ed  tongue  of  God ! 
1  hear  thee  calling  to  me,  and  I  come  ! 
Of  old  I  did  but  know  thy  outer  form, 
And    dreamed    not    of    the    spirit    hid 

within ; 
The  Goddess  in  the  Lotus.     Yes,  I  come, 
And  will  not  rest,  —  nor  will  1  calm  my 

doubt  I 

Till  I  have  seen  thee  plainly  with  nunc 

eyes. 
And   palpably  have   touched   thee   with 

my  hand, 
Then  shall  I  know  thee,  —  raised  to  life 

fpr  WW. 
For  what  thou  truly  art.  ' 

Lo  !    1  have  heard 
That  in  the  land  of  Kin  a  master  lives,     1 
So  deeply  skilled  in  nuisic,  that  mankind 
Begin  again  to  give  a  glowing  faith  i 

Unto  the  golden  stories  wliicli  are  told 
Of   the   strange    iiarmonics   which   built 

the  world,  I 


And  of  the  melody  whose  key  is  God. 
Now  I  will  travel  to  the  land  of  Kin, 
And    know   this   sage   of   music,    great 

Siang, 
And  learn  the  secret  lore   which   hides 

within 
All   sweet    well-ordered    sounds."      He 

went  his  waj'. 
Nor  rested  till  he  stood  before  the  man. 

Thus  spoke  Siang  unto  Confucius  : 
"Of  all  the  arts,  great  Music  is  the  art 
To  raise  the  soul  above  all  earthly  storms  ; 
For  in  it  lies  that  purest  harmony 
Which    lifts    us    over    self    and    up    to 

God. 
Thou  who  hast  studied  deeply  the  ^r^i^a — 
The    eight    great    symbols    of    created 

things  — 
Knovvest  the  sacred  power  of  the  line 
Which   when   unbroken  Hies  to  all  the 

worlds 
As  light  unending,  — but  in  broken  fonns 
Falls    short   as    sky   and   eailh,  clouds, 

winds,  and  hre, 
The  deep  blue  ocean  and  the  mountain 

high. 
And  the  red  lightning  hissing  in  the  wave. 
The  mighty  law  which  formed  what  thou 

canst  see. 
As  clearly  lives  in  all  that  thou   canst 

hear. 
And  more  than  this,  in   all   that   thou 

canst  feel. 
Here,  take  thy  lute   in  hand.     I  teach 

the  air 
Made  by  the  sage  Wen  Wang  of  ancient 

days." 

Confucius  took  the  lute  and  played  the 

air 
Till   all    his   soul   seemed    passing  into 

song; 
Tlieu  he  fell  deep  into  the  solemn  chords 
As  though  his  body  and  the  lute  were 

one. 
And  every  chord  a  wave  which  bore  him 

on 
Through  the  great  sea  of  ecstasy.     His 

hands 
Then  ceased  to  play,  — butinhisraiitured 

look 
The)'  saw  him  following  out  the  harmony. 

Five  days  went  by,  and  still  Confueins 
Played  all  day  long  the  ancient  simple 
air; 


CHARLES   G.    LELAND. 


ooo 


And  when  Siang  would  teach  him  more^ 

lie  said : 
"Not  yet,  my  master,  I  would  seize  the 

thoiKjht, 
The  subtle  thought  which  hides  within 

the  tune." 
To  which  the  master  answered:   "It  is 

well. 
Take  five  days  more!"     And  when  the 

time  was  passed 
Unto  Siaug  thus  spoke  Confucius  : 
"I  do  begin  to  see,  ^ — yet  wliat  I  see 
Is  very  dim.     I  am  as  one  who  looks 
And    nothing  sees   except   a   luminous 

cloud : 
Give  me  but  five  more  days,  and  at  the 

end 
If  I  have  not  attained  the  great  idea 
Hidden  of  old  within  the  melody, 
I  will  leave  music  as  beyond  my  power." 
"Do  as  thou  wilt,  0  pupil !"  cried  Siang 
In  deepest  admiration;   "never  yet 
Had  1  a  scholar  who  was  like  to  thee." 

And  on  the  fifteenth  day  Confucius  rose 
And  stood  before  Siang,  and  cried  aloud  : 
"The  mist  which  sliadowed  me  is  blown 

away, 
I  am  as  one  who  stands  upon  a  cliff 
And  gazes  far  and  wide  ujion  the  world, 
For  I  have  mastered  every  secret  thought. 
Yea,  every  shadow  of  a  feeling  dim 
AVliieh  flitted  through  tlie  spirit  of  Wen 

Wang 
When  he  composed  that  air.     I  speak  to 

Iiim, 
I  hear  him  clearlj'  answer  me  again  ; 
And  more  than  that,  I  see  his  very  form  : 
A  man  of  middle  stature,  with  a  hue 
Half  blended  with  tlie  dark  and  with  the 

fair ; 
His  features  long,  and  large  sweet  eyes 

whieli  beam 
With  great  benevolence,  — a  noble  fa^e  ! 
His  voice  is  deep  and  full,  and  all  his  air 
Inspires  a  sense  of  virtue  and  of  love. 
1  know  that  I  behold  the  very  man. 
The  sage  of  ancient  days.  Wen  Wang  the 

just." 

Then  good  Siang  lay  down  upon  the  dust. 
And  said  :  "  Thou  art  my  master.    Even 

thus 
The  ancient  legend,  known  to  none  but 

ine. 
Describes  our  first  great  sire.    And  thou 

hast  seen 


!  That  which  I  never  yet  mj'self  beheld, 
Though  I   have  played  the  sacred  song 

for  years. 
Striving  with  all  my  soul  to  penetrate 
Its  mystery  unto  the  master's  form, 
Whilst  thou  hast  reached  it  at  a  single 

bound : — 
Henceforth  the  gods  alone  can  teach  thee 

tune." 

MINE  OWN. 

And  0,  the  longing,  burning  eyes  ! 

And  0,  the  gleaming  hair 
Which  waves  around  nie,  night  and  day, 

U'er  chamber,  hall,  and  stair! 

And  0,  the  step,  half  drtamt,  half  heard  ! 

And  0,  the  laughter  low  I 
And  memories  of  merriment 

Which  faded  long  ago! 

0,  art  thou  Sylph, — or  truly  Self, — 

Or  either  at  thy  choice? 
0,  speak  in  breeze  or  beating  heart, 

But  let  me  hear  thy  voice  ! 

"0,  some  do  call  me  Laughter,  love; 

And  some  do  call  me  Sin"  : — 
"And  they  may  call  thee  what  they  will. 

So  I  th}'  love  may  win. 

"And  some  do  call  me  Wantonnes.s, 
And  some  do  call  me  Play"  :  — 

"(),  they  might  call  thee  what  tliey  wou'.d 
If  thou  wert  mine  alway  !  " 

"And  some  do  call  me  Sottow,  love, 

And  some  do  call  me  Tears, 
And  some  thei'e  be  who  name  me  Hope, 

And  some  that  name  me  Fears. 

"And  some  do  call  me  Gentle  Heart, 
And  some  Forgetfulness"  :  — 

"And  if  tliou  cora'st  as  one  or  all. 
Thou  comest  but  to  bless  !" 

"And  some  do  call  me  Life,  sweetheart, 
And  some  do  call  me  Death  ; 

And  he  to  whom  the  two  are  one 
Has  won  my  heart  and  faith.' 

She  twined  her  white   arms   round   his 
neck :  — 

The  tears  fell  down  like  rain, 
"And  if  I  live  or  if  1  die. 

We'll  never  part  again." 


oo4 


SOXGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


HELEN  BARRON  BOSTWICK. 


URVASI. 

'T  IS  a  story  told  by  Kalulasa,  — 
Hindoo  poet, — in  melodious  rhyme, 

How  with  train  of  maidens,  young  Urvasi 
Came  to  keep  great  Indra's  festal  time. 

'T  was  her  part  in  worshipful  confession 
Oi'  the  god-name  on  that  sacred  day, 

AValking  Hower-crowned  in  the  long  pro- 
cession, 
"I  love  Puru-shotta-ma"  to  say. 

Pure  as  snow  on  Himalayan  ranges. 
Heaven -descended,    soon    to    heaven 
withdrawn, 
Faii'er    than    the    moon-flower    of    the 
Ganges, 
Was  Urvasi,  Daughter  of  the  Dawn. 

But  it  happened  that  the  gentle  maiden 
Loved  one  Puru-avas,  —  fateful  name  ! — 

And  her  heart,  with  its  sweet  secret  laden. 
Faltered  when  her  time  of  utterance 
came. 

"I  love" — then  she  stopped,  and  people 
wondered ; 
"I  love" — she  must  guard  her  secret 
well ; 
Then  from  sweetest  lips  that  ever  blun- 
dered, 
"I  love  Puru-avas,"  trembling  fell. 

Ah,  what  terror  seized  on  poor  Urvasi ! 

JMisty  grew  the  violets  of  her  eyes. 
And  iier  form  bent  like  a  broken  daisy, 

While  around  her  rose  the   mocking 
cries. 

But  great  Indra  said,  "The  maid  shall 
many 
Him  whose  image  in  her  faithful  heart 
She  so  near  to  that  of  God  doth  carry. 
Scarce  her  lips  can  keep  their  names 
apart. " 

Call  it*then  not    weakness   or  dissem- 
bling, 
If,  in  striving  the  high  name  to  reach, 
Tlnougli    our   voices    runs    the    tender 
trembling 
Of    an    earthly   name    too    dear    for 
speech ! 


Ever  dwells  the  lesser  in  the  greater; 
*    In  God's  love  the  human  :  we  by  these 
Know  he  holds    Love's   simplest   stam- 
mering sweeter 
Than  cold  praise  of  wordy  Pharisees. 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  FUNERAL. 

Up  on  the  breezy  headland  the  fisher- 
man's grave  they  made, 
Where,  over  the  daisies  and  clover  bells, 

the  birchen  branches  swayed ; 
Above  us  the  lark  was  singing    in    the 

cloudless  skies  of  June, 
And  under  the  clifl's   the   billows   were 

chanting  their  ceaseless  tune : 
For  the  creamy  line  was  curving  along 

the  hollow  shore, 
Where  tiie  dear  old  tides  were  flowing 

that  he  would  ride  no  more. 
The  dirge  of  the  wave,  the  note  of  the  bird, 

and  the  priest's  low  tone  were  blent 
In  the  breeze  tliat  blew  from  the  moor- 
land, all  laden  with  country  scent ; 
But  never  a  thought  of  the  new-mown 

hay  tossing  on  sunnj'  plains. 
Or  of  lilies  dee])  in  the    wild-wood,  or 

roses  gemming  the  lanes. 
Woke  in  the  hearts  of  the  stern  bronzed 

men    who    gathered   around   the 

grave. 
Where  lay  the  mate  who  had  fought  with 

them  the  battle  of  wind  and  wave. 

How  boldly  he  steered  the  coble  across 

the  foaming  bar. 
When  the  sky  was  black  to  the  eastward 

and  the  breakers  whiteon  the  Scar ! 
How  his  keen  eye  caughtthesquallahead, 

how  his  strong  handfurledthesail. 
As  we  drove  o'er  the  angry  waters  before 

the  raging  gale ! 
How  cheery  he  kejjt  all  the  long   dark 

night ;  and  never  a  parson  spoke 
Good  words,  like  those  he    said    to   us, 

when  at  last  the  morning  broke ! 

So  thought  the  dead  man's  comrades,  as 
silent  and  sad  they  stood. 

While  the  prayer  was  prayed,  tlie  blessing 
said,  and  the  dull  earth  struck  the 
wood ; 


UNKNOWN. 


335 


And  the  widow's  soh  niid  tlio  or)>han's 

wail  jarred  tlirough  the  joyous  air ; 
How  could  the  light  wind  o'er  the  sea, 

blow  on  so  fresh  and  fair? 
How  could  the  gay  waves  laugh  and  leap, 

landward  o'er  sand  and  stone, 
While    he,   who    knew  and    loved  them 

all  lay  lapped  in  clay  alone  ? 

But  for  long,  when  to  the  beetling  heights 

the  anow-tipped  billows  roll. 
When  the  cod,  and  skate,  and  dogfish  dart 

aiound  the  herring  shoal ; 
When  gear  is  sorted,  and  sails  are  set, 

and  the  meny  breezes  blow. 
And  away  to  the  deep  sea-harvest  the 

stalwart  reapers  go, 
A  kindly  sigh,  and  a  hearty  word,  they 

will  give  to  him  who  lies 
Where  the  clover  springs,  and  the  heather 

blooms,  beneath  the  northern  skies. 


UNKNOWN. 

ON  RECROSSING  THE  ROCKY  MOU::- 
TAINS  IN  WINTER,  AFTER  MANY 
YEARS. 

Long  yeai-s  ago  I  wandered  here, 
In  the  midsummer  of  the  year, — 

Life's  summer  too ; 
A  score  of  horsemen  here  we  rode. 
The  mountain  world  its  glories  showed, 

All  fair  to  view. 

These  scenes  in  glowing  colors  drest. 
Mirrored  the  life  within  my  breast, 

Its  world  of  hopes  ; 
Thewhisperingwoods  and  fragrant  breeze 
That  stirred  the  grass  in  verdant  seas 

On  billowy  slopes, 

And  glistening  crag  in  sunlit  sky, 

Mid  snowy  clouds  piled  mountains  high, 

Were  joys  to  me ; 
My  path  was  o'er  the  prairie  wide. 
Or  here  on  grander  mountain-side, 

To  choose,  all  free. 

The  rose  that  waved  in  morning  air. 
And  spread  its  dewy  fragrance  there 

In  careless  bloom. 
Gave  to  my  heart  its  ruddiest  hue, 
O'er  my  glad  life  its  color  threw 

And  sweet  perfume. 


Kow  changed  the  scene  and  changed  the 

eyefe. 
That  here  once  looked  on  glowing  skies, 

Where  summer  snuled ; 
These  riven  trees,  this  wind-sweyit  plain 
Now  show  the  winter's  dread  domain, 

Its  fury  wild. 

The  rocks  rise  black  from  storm-packed 

snow. 
All  checked  the  river's  pleasant  flow, 

Vanished  the  bloom ; 
These  dreary  wastes  of  frozen  plain 
lieflect  my  bosom's  life  again. 

Now  lonesome  gloom. 

The  buoyant  hopes  and  busy  life 
Have  ended  all  in  hateful  strife. 

And  thwarted  aim. 
The  world's  rude  contact  killed  the  rose, 
No  more  its  radiant  color  shows 

False  roads  to  fame. 

Backward,  amidst  the  twilight  glow 
k3ome  lingering  spots  yet  brightly  show 

On  hard  roads  won. 
Where  still  some  grand  peaks  mark  the  way 
Touched  b}'  the  light  of  parting  day 

And  memory's  sun. 

But  here  thick  clouds  the  mountainshide, 
The  dim  horizon  bleak  and  wide 

No  pathway  shows. 
Ami  rising  gusts,  and  darkening  skv, 
Tell  of  "the  night  that  cometli,"  nigh. 

The  brief  day's  close. 


UNKNOWN. 


JULY  DAWNING. 

"We  left  the  city,  street  and  square, 
With  lamplights  glimmering  through 
and  through. 
And    turned    us    toward    the    suburb, 
where  — 
Full  from  the  ea.st — the  fre»h  wind 
blew. 

One  cloud  stood  overhead  the  sun,  — 
A  glorious  trail  of  ilome  and  spiie, — 

The  last  star  flickered,  and  was  gone; 
Till-'  fast  lark  led  the  matin  choir. 


336 


SONGS    OF   THREE    CENTURIES. 


Wet  was  the  grass  beneath  our  tread, 
Thiek-dewed  the  bramble  %  the  way; 

The  lichen  liad  a  lovelier  red, 
The  elder-flower  a  fairer  gray. 

And  there  was  silence  on  the  land, 
Save  when,  from  out  the  city's  ibid. 

Stricken  by  Time's  remorseless  wand, 
A  bell  across  the  morning  tolled. 

The   beeches   sighed   through   all   their 
boughs ; 

The  gusty  pennons  of  the  ])ine 
Swayed  in  a  melancholy  drowse, 

But  with  a  motion  sternly  line. 

One  gable,  full  against  the  sun,  . 

Flooded  the  garden-space  beneath 
With  s])ices,  sweet  as  cinnamon. 

From  all  its  honeysuckled  breath. 

Then  crew  the  cocks  from  echoing  farms. 
The  chimney-tops  were  plumed  with 
smoke, 

The  windmill  .shook  its  slanted  arms, 
The  sun  was  up,  the  country  woke  ! 

And  voices  sounded  mid  the  trees 
Of  orchards  red  with  burning  leaves, 

By  thick  hives,  sentinelled  Viy  bees, — 
From   fields   which   promised    tented 
sheaves ; 

Till  the  day  waxed  into  excess, 

And  on  the  misty,  rounding  gray, — 

One  vast,  fantastic  wilderness. 
The  glowing  roofs  of  London  lay. 


UNKNOWN. 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  SUMII0N3. 

The  sea  is  calling,  calling. 

W^ife,  is  there  a  log  to  spare  ? 

Fling  it  down  on  the  hearth  and  call 

them  in. 
The  boys  and  girls  with  their  merry  din, 
1  am  loth  to  leave  j'ou  all  just  yet, 
In  the  light  and  the  noise  I  might  forget, 
The  voice  in  the,  evening  air. 

The  sea  is  calling,  calling. 

Along  the  hollow  shore. 

I  know  each  nook  in  the  rocky  strand, 

And  the  crimson  weedsouthegohlen  sand, 


And  the  worn  old  cliff  where  the  sea- 
pinks  cling. 

And  the  winding  cates  where  the  echoes 
ring. 

I  .shall  wake  them  nevermore. 

How  it  keeps  calling,  calling. 

It  is  never  a  night  to  sail. 

I  saw  the  "sea-dog"  over  the  height. 

As  1  .strained  through  the  haze  my  fail- 
ing sight, 

And  the  cottage  creaks  and  rocks,  well- 
nigh. 

As  the  old  "Fox" did  in  the  days  gone  by, 

In  the  moan  of  the  rising  gale. 

Yet  it  is  calling,  calling. 

It  is  hard  on  a  soul,  I  say, 

To  go  fluttering  out  in  the  cold  and  the 

dark. 
Like  the  Ijird  they  tell  us  of,   from  the 

ark; 
AVhile  the  foam  flies  thick  on  the  bitter 

blast. 
And  the  angry  waves  roll  fierce  and  fast, 
Where  the  black  buoy  marks  the  bay. 

Do  you  hear  it  calling,  calling? 
And  yet,  I  am  none  so  old. 
At  the  herring  fishery,  but  last  year, 
No  boat  heat  mine  for  tackle  and  gear, 
And  I  steered  the  coble  past  the  reef, 
When  the  liroad  sail  shook  like  a  with- 
ered leaf, 
And  the  rudder  chafed  my  hold. 

Will  it  never  stop  calling,  calling? 
Can't  you  sing  a  song  by  the  hearth? 
A  heartsoine  stave  of  a  merry  glass. 
Or  a  gallant  fight,  or  a  bonnie  lass  ? 
Don't  you  care  for  your  grand-dad  just 

so  much? 
Come  near  then,  give  me  a  hand  to  touch. 
Still  warm  with  the  warmth  of  earth. 

You  hear  it  calling,  calling? 

Ask  her  why  she  sits  and  cries. 

She  always  did  when  the  sea  was  up. 

She  would  fret,  and  never  take  bit  or  sup 

When  I  and  the  lads  were  out  at  niglit, 

And  she  saw  the  breakers  cresting  white 

Beneath  the  low  black  skies. 

But,  then,  it  is  calling,  calling, 

No  summons  to  soul  was  .sent. 

Now —    Well,  fetch  the  parson,  find  the 

book. 
It  is  up  on  the  shelf  there  if  you  look  ; 


MAEY  N.    PRESCOTT.  —  ARTHUR   O'SHAUGHNESSY. 


337 


The  sea  has  been  friend,  and  fire,  and 

bread ; 
Put  me,  where  it  will  tell  of  me,  lying 

dead, 
How  It  called,  and  I  rose  and  went. 


MAM  ]^.  PRESCOTT. 


[U.    S.    A.] 


WORK. 


Sweet  wind,  fair  wind,  where  have  yoii 

been? 
"I  've  been  sweeping  the  cobwebs  ont  of 

the  sky ; 
I've  been  grinding  a  grist  in  the  mill 

hard  by ; 
I  've  been  laughing  at  work  while  others 

sigh ; 
Let  those  laugh  who  win  ! " 

Sweet  rain,  soft  rain,  what  are  you  doing? 
"I  'm  urging  the  corn  to  fill  out  its  cells ; 
I  'm  helping  the  lily  to  fashion  its  hells ; 
I  'm  swelling  the  torrent  and  brimming 
the  wells ; 
Is  that  worth  pursuing?" 

Redbreast,  redbreast,  what  have  you  done? 
"I  've  been  watching  the  nest  where  my 

fledgelings  lie ; 
T  've  sung  them  to  sleep  with  a  lullaby ; 
By  and  by  I  shall  teach  them  to  fly, 
Up  and  away,  every  one  !" 

Honey-bee,  honey-bee,  where  are  you  go- 
ing? 
"To  fill  my  basket  with  precious  pelf; 
To  toil  for  my  neighbor  as  well  as  myself ; 
To  find  out  the  sweetest  flower  that  grows, 
Be  it  a  thistle  or  be  it  a  rose,  — 

A  secret  worth  the  knowing !" 

Each  content  with  the  work  to  be  done, 
Ever  the  same  from  sun  to  sun : 
Shall  you  and  I  be  taught  to  work 
By  the  bee  and  the  bird,  that  scorn  to 
shirk  ? 

Wind  and  rain  fulfilling  His  word! 

Tell  me,  was  ever  a  legend  heard 

AVhere  the  wind,  commanded  to  blow, 
deferred ; 

Or  the  rain,  that  was  bidden  to  fall,  de- 
murred ? 

22 


•        TWO  MOODS. 

I  PLUCKED  the  harebells  as  I  went 

Singing  along  the  river-side ; 

The  skies  above  were  opulent 

Of  sunshine.      "Ah!  whate'er  betide, 

The  world  is  sweet,  is  sweet,"  I  cried, 

That  morning  by  the  river-side. 

The  curlews  called  along  the  shore ; 
The  boats  put  out  from  sandy  beach ; 
Afar  I  heard  tlie  lircakers'  roar, 
Mellowed  to  silver-sounding  speech ; 
And  still  I  sang  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
"The  world  is  sweet  forevermore  !" 

Perhaps,  to-day,  some  other  one, 
Loitering  along  the  river-side. 
Content  beneath  the  gracious  sun, 
May  sing,  again,  "Whate'er  betide, 
The  world  is  sweet."     1  shall  not  chide, 
Although  my  song  is  done. 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

SONG  OF  A  FELLOW-WORKER. 

I  FOUND  a  fellow-worker  when  I  deemed 

I  toiled  alone  : 
My   toil   was   fashioning    thought   and 

sound,  and  his  was  hewing  stone ; 
I  worked  in  the  palace  of  my  brain,  he 

in  the  common  street. 
And  it  seemed  his  toil  was  great  and  hard, 

while  mine  was  great  and  sweet. 

1  said,"0  fellow- worker,  yea,  for  1  am  a 

worker  too. 
The  heart  nigh  fails  me  many  a  day,  but 

how  is  it  with  you? 
For  while  I  toil  great  tears  of  joy  will 

sometimes  fill  my  eyes. 
And  when  I  form  my  perfect  work  it  lives 

and  never  dies. 

' '  I  carve  the  marble  of  pure  thought  until 

the  thought  takes  form. 
Until  it  gleams  before  my  soul  and  makes 

the  world  grow  warm  ; 
Until  there  comes  the  glorious  voice  and 

words  that  seem  divine. 
And  the  music  rea.dies  all  men's  hearts 

and  draws  them  into  mine. 


338 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


"Aud  yet  for  days  it  seems  my  Heart  shall 

blossom  never  more, 
And  the  burden  of  my  loneliness  lies  on 

me  very  sore : 
Therefore,  0   hewer  of  the  stones   that 

pave  base  human  ways, 
How  canst  thou  bear  the  years  till  death, 

made  of  such  thankless  days?" 

Then  he  replied  :  "Ere sunrise,  when  the 

pale  li|)S  of  the  day 
Sent  forth  an  earnest  thrill  of  breath  at 

warmth  of  the  hrst  ray, 
A  great  thought  rose  within  me,   how, 

while  men  asleep  had  lain, 
The  thousand  labors  of  the  world  had 

grown  up  once  again. 

"The sun  grew  on  the- world,  and  on  my 

soul  the  thought  grew  too,  — 
A  great  appallins;  sun,  to  light  my  soul 

the  long  day  through. 
I  felt  the  world's    whole    burden  for   a 

moment,  then  began 
With  man's  gigantic  strength  to  do  the 

labor  of  one  man. 

"I  went  forth  hastily,  and  lo !  1  met  a 

hundred  men, 
The   worker  with    the    chisel    and   the 

worker  with  the  pen, — 
The  restless  toilers  after  good,  who  sow 

and  never  reap. 
And   one  who  niaketh   music  for  their 

souls  that  may  not  sleep. 

"Each  passed  me  with  a  dauntless  look, 

and  my  undaunted  eyes 
Were    almost   softened   as   they   passed 

with  tears  that  strove  to  rise 
At  sight  of  all  those  labors,  and  becau.se 

that  ever}'  one. 
Ay,  the  greatest,  would  be  gi'eater  if  my 

little  were  undone. 

"They  passed  me,  having  faith  in  me, 
and  in  our  several  ways. 

Together  we  began  to-day  as  on  the  other 
days : 

I  felt  their  mighty  hands  at  work,  and, 
as  the  day  wore  through. 

Perhaps  they  fidt  that  even  I  was  help- 
ing somewhat  too : 

"Perhaps  they  felt,  as  w^th  those  hands 

they  lifted  miglitily 
The   burden   once    more  laid  upon  the 

world  so  heavily, 


That  while  they  nobly  held  it  as  each 

man  can  do  and  bear. 
It  did  not  wholly  fall  my  side  as  though 

no  man  were  there. 

"And  so  we  toil  together  many  a  day 

from  morn  till  night, 
I  in  the  lower  depths  of  life,  they  on  the 

lovely  height ; 
For  though  the  common  stones  are  mine, 

and  they  have  lofty  cares. 
Their  work  begins  where  this  leaves  off, 

and  mine  is  part  of  theirs. 

"And  't  is  not  wholly  mine  or  theirs  I 
think  of  through  the  day, 

But  the  great  eternal  thing  we  make  to- 
gether, I  and  they ; 

Far  in  the  sunset  I  behold  a  city  that 
man  owns. 

Made  fair  with  all  their  nobler  toil,  built 
of  my  common  stones. 

"Then  noonward,  as  the  task  grows  light 
with  all  the  labor  done. 

The  single  thought  of  all  the  day  be- 
comes a  joyous  one : 

For,  rising  in  my  heart  at  last  where  it 
has  lain  so  long. 

It  thrills  ttp  seeking  for  a  voice,  and 
grows  almost  a  song. 

"But  when  the  evening  comes,  indeed, 

the  words  have  taken  W'ing, 
The  thought  sings  in  me  still,  but  I  am 

all  too  tired  to  sing  ; 
Therefore,  O  you  my  friend,  who  serve 

the  world  with  minstrelsy. 
Among  our  fellow-workers'  songs  make 

that  one  song  for  me." 


MRS.  KNOX. 


A  SONG. 

Dost  thou  think  1  captive  lie 
To  a  gracious,  glancing  eye? 
Dost  thou  think  I  am  not  free? 
Nay,  1  am ;  thou  freest  me. 

All  the  world  could  not  undo 

Chains  which  bound  me  fast  to  you ; 
Only  at  your  touch  they  fly, — 
Freer  than  before  am  I. 


C.    BROOKE.  —  ARCHDEACON   HARE. 


I  care  not  for  eyes  of  blue ; 

1  loved  truth  and  thought  it  you ; 
If  you  charm  but  to  deceive, 
Alt  your  charms  I  well  can  leave. 

Ah,  my  once  well-loved  one ; 
Do  no  more  as  thou  hast  done ; 

She  that  makes  true  hearts  to  ache, 
Last  of  all  her  own  will  break. 


C.  BROOKE. 

A  CYCLE. 

If  he  had  come  in  the  early  dawn, 
When  the  sunrise  Hushed  the  earth, 

I  would  have  giveu  him  all  my  heart. 
Whatever  the  heart  was  worth. 

If  he  had  come  at  the  noontide  hour, 
He  would  not  have  come  too  late; 

I  would  have  given  him  patient  faith, 
For  then  I  had  learned  to  wait. 

If  he  had  come  in  the  afterglow. 
In  the  peace  of  the  eventide, 

I  would  have  given  liim  hands  and  brain, 
And  worked  for  him  till  1  died. 

If  he  comes  now  the  sun  has  set. 
And  the  light  has  died  away, 

I  will  not  give  him  a  broken  life 
But  will  turn  and  say  him,  "Nay." 


ARCHDEACON  HARE. 

ITALY.    A  PROPHECY. 

ISIS. 

Stkike  the  loved  harp;  let  the  prelude 
be, 
Italy!  Italy! 
That  chord  again,  again  that  noteofglee, — 

Italy!  Italy! 
Italy !  0  Italy  !  the  Very  sound  it  charm- 

eth : 
Italy !    0  Italy !    the   name   my   bosom 
warmeth. 
High  thought  of  self-devotions, 
Compassionate  emotions, 


Soul-stirring  recollections, 

AVith  hofies,  their  bright  reflections. 

Rush  to  my  troubled  heart  at  thought  of 
thee. 

My  own  illustrious,  injured  Italy. 

Dear  queen  of  snowy  mountains. 
And  consecrated  iountains, 
W^ithin  whose  rocky,  heaven-asp)iringpale 
Beauty  has  fixed  a  dwelling 
All  others  so  excelling 
To  praise  it  right,  thine  own  sweet  tones 
would  fail ; 
Hail  to  thee  !  hail ! 
How   rich   art    thou   in   lakes   to   poet 

dear, 
And  those  broad  pines  amid  the  sunniest 
glade 
So  reigning  through  the  year, 
W^ithin  the  magic  circle  of  their  shade 
No  sunbeam  may  appear ! 
How  fair  thy  double  sea ! 
In  blue  celestialh' 

Glittering  and  circling !  but  I  may  not 
dwell 
On  gifts,  which,  decking   thee   too 
well. 
Allured  the  .spoiler.     Let  me  fix  my  ken 

Rather  upon  thy  godlike  men. 
The  good,  the  wise,  the  valiant,  and  the 

free. 
On  history's  pillars  towering  gloriously, 
A  trophy  reared  on  high  upon  thy  strand. 
That  every  people,  eveiy  clime 
May  mark  and  understand. 
What  memorable  courses  may  be  run, 
What  golden  never-failing  treasures  won, 
From  time. 
In  spite  of  chance. 
And  worser  ignorance. 
If  men  be  ruled  by  Duty's  firm  decree. 
And  wisdom   hold  her  paramount  mas- 
tery. 

What  art  thou  now  ?     Alas  !     Alas ! 

Woe,  woe  ! 
That  strength  and  virtue  thusshouldpass 

From  men  below ! 
That  so  divine,  so  beautiful  a  Maid 
Should  in  the  withering  dust  be  laid. 
As  one  that —    Hush  !'   who  dares  with 
impious  breath 
To  speak  of  death  ? 
The  fool  alone  and  unbeliever  weepeth. 
We  know  she  only  sleepeth  ; 

And  from  the  dust. 
At  the  end  of  her  correction, 


340 


SONGS   OF   THREE   CENTURIES. 


Truth  hath  decreed  her  joyous  resurrec- 
tion : 
She  shall  arise,  she  must. 
For  can  it  be  that  wickedness  hath  power 
To  undermine  or  topple  down  the  tower 
Of  virtue's  cdiliee  ? 
And  yet  that  vice 
Should  be  allowed  on  sacred  ground  to 
plant 
A  rock  of  adamant  ? 
It  is  of  ice, 
That  rock  soon  destined  to  dissolve  away 
Before  the  righteous  sun's  returning  ray. 

But  who  shall  bear  the  dazzling  radiancy. 
When  first  the  royal  Maid  awaking 
Darteth  around  her  wild  indignant  eye, 
When  first  her  bright  spear  shaking, 
Fixing  lier  feet  on  earth,  her  looks  on  sky. 
She  standeth  like  the  Archangel  prompt 

to  van(piisli, 
Yet  still  imploring  succor  from  on  high  ? 

0  days  of  weary  hope   and  passionate 

anguish. 
When  will  ye  end  ! 
Until  that  end  be  come,  until  I  hear 

The  Alps  their  mighty  voices  blend. 
To  swell  and  echo  back  the  sound  most 

dear 
To  patriot  hearts,  the  cry  of  Liberty, 

1  must  live  on.     But  when  the  glorious 

Queen 
As  erst  is  canopied  with  Freedom's  sheen. 
When  I  have  prest,  with  salutation  meet, 
With  reverent  love  to  kiss  her  honored 

feet, 
I  then  may  die, 
Die  how  well  satisfied  ! 
Conscious  that  I  have  watched  the  second 

birth 
Of  her  I  've  loved  the  most  upon  the 

earth. 
Conscious  beside 
That  no  more  beauteous  sight  can  here 

be  given : 
Sublimer  visions  are  reserved  for  heaven. 


UMvXOWN. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


There  are  who  for  thy  last,  long  sleep 
Shall  sleep  as  sweetly  nevermore,  — 

Shall  weep  because  thou  canst  not  weep, 
And  grieve  that  all  thy  griefs  are  o'er. 

Sad  thrift  of  love  !  the  loving  breast 
On  which  the  aching  head  was  thrown, 

Gave  up  the  weary  head  to  rest. 
But  kept  the  aching  for  its  own. 


Farewell  !  since  never  more  for  thee 
The  sun  comes  up  our  eastern  skies, 

Less  bright  hencefortli  shall  sunshine  be 
To  some  fond  hearts  and  saddened  eyes. 


FREDERICK  TEN^^YSON. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  afternoon  ! 
The  Blackbird  sings  along  the  sunny 

breeze 
His  ancient  song  of  leaves,  and  summer 

boon ; 
Rich     breath     of     hayfields    streams 

through  whispering  trees; 
And  birds  of  morning  trim  their  bustling 

wings, 
And  listen  fondly — while  the  Blackbird 


How  soft  the  lovelight  of  the  west  re- 
poses 
On  this  green  valley's  cheery  solitude, 

On  the  trim  cottage  with  its  screen  of 
roses. 
On  the  gray  belfry  with  its  ivy  hood, 

And  murmuring  mill-race,  and  the  wheel 
that  flings 

Its  bubbling  freshness  —  while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 


The  very  dial  on  the  village  church 
Seems  as  't  were  dreaming  in  a  dozy 
rest ; 

The  scribbled  benches   underneath   the 
porch 
Bask  in  the   kindly  welcome   of  the 
west : 

But  the  broad  casements  of  the  old  Three 
Kings 

Blaze  like  a  furnace  —  while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

And  there  beneath  the  immemorial  elm 
Three    rosy   revellers    round   a   table 
sit, 


FREDERICK  TENNYSON. 


341 


And  through  gray  clouds  give  laws  unto 
the  realm, 
Curse  good  and  great,  but  worship  their 
own  wit. 

And  roar  of  fights,  and  fairs,  and  junket- 
ings. 

Corn,  colts,  and   curs  —  the   while   the 
Blackbird  sings. 

Before    her    home,   in   her   accustomed 
seat. 
The  tidy  grandam  spins  beneath  the 
shade 

Of  the  old  honeysuckle,  at  her  feet 
The  dreaming  pug,  and  purring  tabby 
laid; 

To  her  low  chair  a  little  maiden  clings, 

And  spells  in  silence  —  while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

Sometimes  the  shadow  of  a  lazy  cloud 
Breathes  o'er  the  hamlet  with  its  gar- 
dens green, 

While  the  far  fields  with  sunlight  over- 
flowed 
Like  golden  shores   of  Fairyland  are 
seen ; 

Again    the    sunshine    on    the    shadow 
springs. 

And  fires  the  thicket — where  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

The  woods,  the  lawn,  the  peaked  manor- 
house. 
With    its    peach-covered    walls,   and 
rookery  loud. 

The  trim,  quaint  garden-alleys,  screened 
with  boughs. 
The   lion-headed  gates,  so  grim   and 
proud, 

The   mossy  fountain  with  its  murmur- 
iiigs. 

Lie  in  warm  sunshine — while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 


The  ring  of  silver  voices,  and  the  sheen 
Of    festal   garments,  —  and  my   lady 
streams 
With  her  gay  court  across   the   garden 
green  ; 
Some  laugh,  and  dance,  some  whisper 
their  love-dreams ; 
And  one  calls  for  a  little  ])age  ;  he  strings 
Her  lute  beside  her  —  while  the  Black- 


A  little  while — and   lo !   the   charm   is 
heard ; 
A  youth,  whose  life  has  been  all  sum- 
mer, steals 

Forth  from  the  noisy  guests  around  the 
board, 
Cree])s  by  her  softly;  at  her  footstool 
kneels  ; 

And,  when  she  pauses,  murmurs  tender 
things 

Into  her  fond  ear — while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

The   smoke-wreaths  from  the  chimneys 
curl  up  higher, 
And  dizzy  things  of  eve  begin  to  float 

Upon  the  light ;    the  breeze  begins  to 
tire. 
Half-way  to  sunset  with  a  diowsy  note 

The   ancient  clock  from  out  the  valley 
swings ; 

The  grandam  nods — and  still  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

Far  shouts  and  laughter  from  the  farm- 
stead peal. 
Where  the  great  stack  is  piling  in  the 
sun; 
Through  narrow  gates  o'erladen  wagons 
reel, 
And  barking  curs  into  the  tumult  run  ; 
While  the  inconstant  wind  bears  off,  and 

»     brings 
The  merry  tempest — and  the  Blackbird 


On  the  high  wold  the  last  look  of  the  sun 
Burns,  like   a   beacon,  over  dale  and 

stream ; 
The  shouts  have  ceased,  the  laughter  and 

the  fun  ; 
The  grandam  sleeps,  and  peaceful  be 

her  dream ; 
Only  a  hammer  on  an  anvil  rings ; 
The  day  is  dying— still  the   Blackbird 

sings. 

Now  the  good  vicar  passes  from  his  gate. 
Serene,  with  long  white  hair;  and  in 
his  eye 

Burns  the  clear  spirit  that  hatli  conquered 
Fate, 
And  felt  the  wings  of  immortality ; 

His  heart  is  thronged  with  great  imagin- 
ings, 

And  tender  mercies  —  while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 


342 


SONGS   OF  THREE   CENTURIES. 


Down  by  the  brook  he  bends  his  steps, 

and  through 
A    lowly    wicket  ;    and    at    last    he 

stands 
Awful  beside  the  bed  of  one  who  grew 
From  boyhood  with  him,  — who  with 

lifted  hands 
And  eyes  seems  listening  to  far  welcom- 

ings 
And  sweeter  music— than  the  Blackbird 


Two  golden  stars,  like  tokens  from  the 

blest, 
Strike  on  his  dim  orbs  from  the  setting 

sun; 
His  sinking  hands  seem  pointing  to  the 

west ; 
He  smiles  as  though   he  said,    "Thy 

will  be  done !" 
His  eyes,  they  see  not  those  illuminings; 
His    ears,    they    hear    not  — what    the 

Blackbird  sings. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Page 
Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !)  144 
Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drift- 

iiiS 301 

A  cabii  and  lovely  paradise 172 

A  chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound 139 

A  cldud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun  . .  146 
A  face  that  should  content  me  wondrous 

well 4 

A  floating,  a  floating 250 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 103 

Again,  how  can  slie  but  immortal  be 11 

A  happy  bit  hiime  this  auld  world  would  be  184 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh 105 

Alas,  't  is  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there     18 

A  light  is  out  in  Italy 304 

All  before  us  lies  the  way 202 

All  powers  of  the  sea  and  air 252 

All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea 306 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights 108 

All  worliUy  sliapes  shall  melt  in  gloom 138 

Alone  I  walk  the  morning  street 323 

Along  the  ramparts   which  surround   the 

town 288 

Although  I  eater  not 10 j 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  couUl  tell  217 

Among  so  many,  can  He  care? 277 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 71 

And  I  shall  sleep  ;  an<l  on  thy  side 100 

And  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 1S2 

And  is  there  care  in  heaven  ?    And  is  there 

love 7 

And  O,  the  longing,  burning  eyes  ! 333 

And  tliou  hast  walked  about  —  how  strange 

a  story  ! 141 

A  parish  priest  was  of  the  pilgrim  train. . .     46 

A  sentinel  angel  sitting  high  in  glory 305 

A  silver  .javelin  which  the  hills 262 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower S3 

A  soldier  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers  173 

A  song  of  a  boat 282 

A  Sower  went  forth  to  sow 329 

As  ships  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 244 

A  stillness  crept  about  the  house 310 

At  daybreak  in  the  fresh  light,  joj'fnlly . . . .  295 

A  thousand  years  shall  come  an<l'go 258 

At  noon,  within  the  dusty  town 315 

A  traveller  through  a  dusty  road  strewed 

acorns  on  the  lea  218 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet 

is  still 72 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  noon 294 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are 

weeping,  I  fly 124 

At  the  spring  of  an  arch  in  the  great  north 

tower 31S 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 46 


Page 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid lOo 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 144 

Beat  on,  proud  billows;  Boreas,  blow 39 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 203 

Begone  dull  care 20 

Beneath  an  Indian  palm  a  girl 181 

Beneath  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 214 

Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived 175 

Blow,  blow,  tliou  winter  wind 16 

Blue  gulf  all  around  us 261 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen 121 

Bonny  Tibbie  Inglis  ! 181 

Break,  break,  break 19a 

Bright  image  of  the  early  years 176 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny  bonny  bride  .     56 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain 237 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river 326 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm 247 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 23S 

Can  angel  spirits  need  repose 1.36 

Clear,  placid  I;eman  !  thy  contrasted  lake.   126 

Close  beside  the  meeting  waters 273 

Close  his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  ! 290 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud 198 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  mv  love 4 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged  ;  'tis 

at  a  white  heat  now 170 

Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 

peace 6 

Comes  something  down  with  eventide 258 

Come  to  me,  dearest,  I  'm  lonelv  without 

thee ', 3.30 

Come  with  a  smile,  when  come  thou  must.  313 

Condemned  to  hope's  delusive  mine 59 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime 295 

Cooper,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's 

woven 166 

Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Doug- 
las   2')0 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed 266 

Day-stars  !  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn, 

to  twinkle 140 

Dear  friend  of  old,  whom  memory  links.. . .  319 
Dear  Friend  !  whose  presence  in  the  hou.se   246 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale 81 

Dim  as  the  borrowed  beams  of  moon  and 

stars 46 

Do  not  clieat  thy  heart,  and  tell  her 278 

Dost  thou  think  I  captive  lie 338 

Down  behnv,  the  wilcl  November  whistling  247 
Drawn  out,  like  lingering  bees,  to  share...  302 

Earl  Gawain  wooed  the  Lady  Barbara 2'i4 

Earth  with  its  dark  and  dreadful  ills 255 


344 


livDEX   OF   FIKST   LINES. 


F.air  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 30 

F;iir  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree 31 

Farewell  rewards  and  fairies  ! 20 

Farewell !  since  never  more  for  thee 340 

Farewell  to  Locliaber,  farewell  to  my  Jean  49 

Father,  I  know  that  all  my  life 246 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age 48 

Father,  thy  paternal  care 146 

I'ather  !  thy  wonders  do  not  singly  st»ind  .  176 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 16 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me 123 

For  a  foot  that  will  not  come 316 

Forever  with  the  Lord  ! 135 

Fresh  glides  the  brook  and  blows  the  gale.  174 

From  gold  to  gray 216 

JYom  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony  ..  45 

From  his  home  in  an  Eastern  bungalow —  321 

From  Oberon,  in  fairy-land 21 

Fiiim  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 101 

From  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit 146 

Full  fathom  live  thy  father  lies 16 

Give  !    as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of 

heaven 259 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet 5 

"  Give  us  a  song  !  "  the  soldiers  cried 203 

Go,  call  for  the  mourners,  and  raise  the 

lament 89 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still .  225 

God  moves  in  a  mvsterious  wav 71 

God  of  the  earth's'extended  plains  : 162 

God  sets  some  souls  in  shaile,  alone 277 

Go  forth  in  life,  O  friend  !  not  seeking  love  259 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest 5 

Gratidmother's  mother  ;  her  age,  I  guess..  219 

Grow  old  along  with  me  ! 204 

Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed 79 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 75 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  sinrit 127 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  lieaven's  gate  sings  16 
Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning 

star 109 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss 

shay 221 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  — the  wind  is  chill..  107 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 202 

Heigh-ho  !  daisies  and  i  uttercups  1 282 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 106 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth 165 

He  meets,  by  heavenly  cliance  exjiress 253 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow  .  59 

Her  liands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white 223 

He  said,  "  O  brother,  where  's  the  use  of 

climbing  ?  " 294 

He  s  gane,  he  's  gane  !  he  's  frae  us  torn  . .  84 

He  sleejis  not  here;  in  hope  and  prayer. ..  221 

He  's  now  upon  the  spectre's  back 186 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 25 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his 

mind 14 

Hie  ui")n  Hielands 76 

High  hopes  that  burned  lil;e  stars  suliliiiic  212 

High  walls  and  huge  tlic  body  may  conlinc  168 

His  echoing  axe  the  settler  swung 234 

Hither  thou  com'st.      The  busy  wind  all 

night 32 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lonl  ! 47 

How  beautifid  It  was,  that  one  bright  day.  211 
How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of 

my  eliildhood 147 

Howe'er  the  wheels  of  Time  go  round 202 

How  fresh,  (>  Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean..  31 

How  ha]>py  is  he  born  and  taught 13 


How  many  days  with  mute  adieu 177 

How  near  to  good  is  what  is  fair  ! 19 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of 

youth 38 

How  sweet  it  was  to  breathe  that  cooler 

air 87 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright  144 
How  sweet  the  harmonics  of  arternoon  !  ..  340 
How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 34 

am  content,  I  do  not  care 51 

am  old  and  blind  ! 237 

climb  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 196 

,    country-born  an'  bred,  know  where  to 

find 224 

do  confess  thou  'rt  smooth  and  fair 26 

do  not  own  an  inch  of  land 274 

dwell  in  grace's  courts 10 

f  all  the  world  and  love  were  young 5 

f  aught  of  oaten  stoji  or  pastoral  song 04 

feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale 155 

f  he  had  come  in  the  early  dawn 339 

fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness 

alone 165 

f  love  were  what  the  rose  is 286 

found  a  fellow-worker  when  I  deemed  I 

toiled  alone 337 

f  stores  of  dry  and  learned  lore  we  gain  . .   156 

f  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love 143 

f  with  light  heatl  erect  I  sing 236 

have  been  out  to-day  in  field  and  wood..  256 
have  fancied  sometimes,  the  old  Eethel- 

bent  beam 304 

have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  compan- 
ions  ." 120 

hear  it  often  in  the  dark 307 

knew  a  Princess  :  she  was  old 303 

know  not  how  to  comfort  thee 254 

know  not  if  or  dark  or  bright 179 

know  not  that  the  men  of  old 180 

know  not  what  shall  befall  me 307 

like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl 200 

loved  him  nfit ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone.  137 

loved  to  hear  the  war-horn  cry 108 

love  to  wander  through   the  woodlands 

hoary 2.33 

'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary 163 

'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean 86 

n  Athens,  when  all  learning  centred  there  326 

n  a  valley,  centuries  ago 318 

never  loved  ambitiously  to  climb 12 

n  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side 51 

n  summer,  when  the  days  were  long 183 

n  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard 247 

n  the  summer  twilight 313 

n  this  sad  hour,  so  still,  so  late 298 

nto  a  city  street  307 

n  winter,  when  the  rain  rained  cauld 24 

jilucked  the  harebells  as  I  went 337 

said  to  Son-ow's  awful  storm '148 

saw  a  man,  by  some  accounted  wise 321 

saw  two  clouds  at  morning 156 

say  to  thee,  do  thou  repeat 241 

sought  thee  round  about.  O  thou  aiy  God     26 

s  there  a  whim-ins])ired  fool 83 

s  this  a  fast,  to  keep 31 

t  chnncetli  once  to  every  soul 306 

t  fell  about  the  Martinmas 22 

t  fell  aliiuit  the  Martinmas  time 24 

thought  of  thee,  my  iiartneraTid  my  guide  103 
t  is  a  jilace  where  poets  crowned  may  feel 

the  heart's  decaying 194 

t  is  done  1 216 

t  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 18 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


345 


It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud 248 

It  stands  in  a  sunny  meadow 290 

It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 67 

It  was  the  winter  wild 35 

I  've  heard  tlieni  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking  88 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west  . .  159 

I  wandered  by  the  brookside 180 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 99 

I  was  thv  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  pile  !  101 

I  worship  thee,  sweet  Will  of  God  ! 239 

I  would  be  ready,  Lord 321 

I  would  ha\e  gone  ;  God  bade  me  stay 272 

I  would  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to  stay  .  162 

Jesas,  lover  of  my  soul 58 

John  Davidson  and  Tib  his  wife 78 

Judge  not ;  the  workings  of  his  brain   278 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us 207 

Just  where  tlie  Treasury's  marble  front . . .  285 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed 3 

Late  to  our  town  there  came  a  maid 269 

Launch  tliy  bark,  mariner  ! 14S 

Lest  men  suspect  your  tale  untrue 50 

Let  nie  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds. .  IS 
Let  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  morning  breezy    160 

Let  us  go,  lassie,  go 88 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art 75 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways  . 228 

Like  some  vision  olden .• 253 

Like  to  tlie  falling  of  a  star 27 

Listen,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear  . . .  207 
Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  von  red-cloaked 

clown '. 200 

Lo,  here  is  God,  and  there  is  God  ! 242 

Long  years  ago  I  wandered  here 335 

Lo  !  o'er  the  earth  the  kindling  spirits  pour  90 
Looking  seaward,  o'er  the  sand-hills  stands 

the  fortress,  old  and  (juaint 299 

Lord !  call  thy  pallid  angel 143 

Lord,  it  belongs  not  to  my  care 39 

Love  divine,  all  other  love  excelling 58 

Love,  when  all  these  years  are  silent,  van- 
ished (juite  and  laid  to  rest 312 

Maiden  !  with  the  meek,  brown  eyes 209 

IMake  nie  no  vows  of  constancy,  dear  friend  251 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here 93 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may 

roam 153 

Jlidwinter  comes  to-morrow 320 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  !. ..     92 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill 81 

Mine  eyes  liave  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming 

of  the  Lord 236 

Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  mountains. .  126 
More  than  the  soul  of  ancient  song  is  given  263 

My  child  is  lying  on  my  knees 270 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  passed 117 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  ])ray 28 

My  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  ho'xl 105 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 152 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is 15 

My  sins  and  follies,  Lord  !  by  thee 33 

Mysterious  niglit !  when   our  first  parent 

knew 89 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee 245 

Never,  surely,  was  holier  man 226 

Next  to  these  ladies,  but  in  naught  allied  .  80 

Night  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep  . . .  314 

No  abbey's  gloom,  nor  dark  cathedral  stoops  235 

No  longer  spread  the  sail  ! 262 

No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill 153 


No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 117 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note.  152 
No  !  Time,  thou  shalt  not  boast  that  I  do 

change IS 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone 219 

Not  often  to  the  parting  soul 235 

Not  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  i)light 144 

Not  yet,  the  flowers  are  in  my  path 254 

O  Artist,  range  not  over-wide 266 

O,  ask  not,  hope  thou  not,  too  much 154 

O  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard 100 

O  Idushing  flowers  of  Krundey  ! 264 

O  fair  and  stately  maid,  whose  eyes 199 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 82 

Of  all  amusements  for  the  mind 232 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 190 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 64 

Of  them  who,  rapt  in  earth  so  cold 73 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do 

name 12 

O  happiness  !  our  being's  end  and  aim  ! 48 

O  happy,  happy  maid 257 

O,  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  iu  the 

gale 138 

O.  I  hae  come  from  far  away 329 

O,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God 239 

O  Lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 161 

O,  Lady  Mary  Ann  looked  o'er  the  castle 

wa' 77 

O  Land,  of  every  land  the  best 257 

O  lassie  ayont  the  hill  ! 270 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might 218 

O  Love  Divine,  of  all  that  is 308 

O  lull  me,  lull  me,  charming  air 26 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  ! 82 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 249 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 248 

Once,  in  the  flight  of  ages  past 135 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands 189 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way  . .       8 

One  day  to  Helbeck  I  had  strolled 118 

One  sweetly  welcome  thought 256 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 128 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake 155 

Open  the  temple-gates  unto  my  love 8 

O  Saviour !  whose  mercy,  severe  in  its  kind- 
ness  17S 

O,  sing  unto  my  roundelay  ! 79 

O  stream  descending  to  the  sea 243 

O,  sweet  and  fair !     O,  rich  and  rare  ! 274 

O  that  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has 

passed 69 

O  thou,  great  Friend  to  all  the  sons  of  men  239 

O  thou  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear ! 124 

O,  timely  hap]iy,  timely  wise 177 

O  luiseen  Spirit  !  now  a  calm  divine 175 

Our  Mary  liket  weel  to  stray 169 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 316 

Out  upon  the  unknown  deep 250 

Over  hill,  over  dale 16 

Over  the  mountains 19 

Over  the  mountain  wave,  see  where  they 

come 108 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me 277 

O,  waly,  waly  u])  the  bank 76 

O,  weel  may  the  boatie  row 77 

O,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 121 

O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud?  149 

O  yet  we  ti'ust  tliat  s(miehow  good 197 

O,   young   Lo(!hinvar  is   come   out  of  the 

west 104 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcorae  day 26 


346 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


Pause  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us  175 

Pipe,  little  minstrels  of  tlie  waning  year. . .  297 

Prajer  is  tlie  soul's  sincere  desire Iii6 

Put  the  broidery-frame  away 191 

Queen,  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair IS 

Quiet  from  God  !     It  cometh  not  to  still  ..  244 

Remember  tis  ]>oor  Mayers  all ! 20 

Ring,  sing  !  ring,  sing  !    i)leasant  Sabbath 
beUs! 284 

Saith  the  white  owl  to  the  martin  folk  ....  314 

iSee,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 231 

Send  down  thy  winged  angel,  God  ! 179 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait 327 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love? 25 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 34 

"  She  is  dead  !  "  they  said  to  him.    "  Come 

away  " 317 

She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie  . .   145 
She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh. ..  266 

She  stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields 291 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn 101 

She  stood  in  the  harvest-field  at  noon 271 

She  w.ilks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 125 

She  was  a  jihantom  of  delight 100 

She  wearies  with  an  ill  unknown 252 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye  ! 54 

Sitting  all  day  in  a  silver  mist 327 

Slave  of  tlie  dark  and  dirty  nnne  ! 90 

Slayer  of  winter,  art  thou  here  again  ? 297 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed 28 

Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares 74 

Slowly,  by  God's  hand  nnfurled 260 

Snow'was  glistening  on  the  mountains,  but 

the  air  was  that  of  June 230 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  roses  in  their  blow- 
ing   291 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the 

air  311 

St.  Agnes'  Eve,  — ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  !  ..  129 

Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines 25 

Stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! 102 

Still  sits  tiie  school-house  bv  the  road 215 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 19 

Strike  tlie  loved  liar))  ;  let  the  prelude  be..  339 

Success  had  made  him  more  than  king 313 

Sure,  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest 137 

Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 31 

Sweetest  of  all  childlike  dreams 215 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies  ! 74 

Sweet-scented    flower !    who  'rt  wont   to 

bloom 92 

Sweet-voiced  Hope,  thy  fine  discourse 241 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  even- 
ing's close 65 

Sweet   wind,   fair  wind,  where   have  you 
been? 337 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers 209 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 30 

Ten  years  !  —  and  to  my  waking  eye 265 

That  house's  form  within   was  rude   and 

strong 9 

That  regal  soul  I  reverence,  in  whose  eyes.  241 
That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  be- 
hold      17 

The  Assvrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on 

the  fold 125 

The  bard  has  sung,  God  never  formed   a 

soul 154 

The  birds,  when  winter  shades  the  sky 105 


The  birds  must  know.  Who  wisely  sings  .  295 
The  conference-meeting  through  at  last  ...  285 
The  cui-few  tolls  the  knell  of  jiarting  day . .  60 
The  curtains  were  half  drawn,    the   floor 

was  swept 272 

The  day  is  ended.     Ere  I  sink  to  sleep 298 

The  day  was  dark,  save  when  the  beam  . ..  142 

The  fairest  action  of  our  human  life 13 

The  frugal  snail,  with  forecast  of  repose. ..  120 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 28 

The  golden  sea  its  miiTor  sjireads 244 

The  gowan  glitters  on  the  sward 86 

The  grass  hung  wet  on  Rydal  banks 260 

The  island  lies  nine  leagues  away 185 

The  .Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Canlinal's  chair. . .  150 
The  Jester  shook  his  head  and  bells,  and 

leaped  upon  a  chair 293 

The  leaves  have  fallen  from  the  trees 268 

The  lift  is  high  and  blue 250 

The  Lord  descended  from  above 3 

The  Lord  my  jiasture  shall  prepare 47 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest 

of  the  year 188 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn 88 

The  music-lesson  of  Koung-tseu  the  wise...  331 

The  night  is  come  ;  like  to  the  day 29 

The  night  was  dark,  though  sometimes  a 

faint  staV ; 328 

The  night  was  made  for  cooling  shade 287 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower  . . .  280 
The  perfect  sight  of  duty ;  thought  which 

moulds 320 

The  jiilgrim  and  stranger,  who,  through  the 

day 273 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 283 

The  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright  . .  147 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses 2S7 

There  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 178 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight 57 

There  is  no  flock,   however  watched  and 

tended 210 

There  is  not  in  this  wide  world  a  valley  so 

sweet 1"24 

There  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground.  9 
There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 

stream 97 

There  was  once  a  gentle  time 91 

The  rich  man's  son  inlierits  lands 224 

The  salt  wind  blows  upon  my  cheek 298 

The  sea  is  calling,  calling 336 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er  40 
These,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father, 

these 52 

These  withered  hands  are  weak 318 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway 172 

The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea 287 

The  solemn  wood  had  spread 255 

The  sparrow  sits  and  sings,  and  sings 296 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 199 

The  sun  is  warn),  the  sky  is  clear 127 

The  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into 

my  brain 155 

The  time  so  trancjuil  is  and  clear 10 

The  tree  of  deei>est  root  is  found 73 

The  weather-leech  of  the  topsail  shivers  .. .  311 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 105 

Tlie  wild  November  comes  at  last 287 

The  wind  ahead,  the  billows  high 240 

The  winds  that  once  the  .\rgi>  bore 289 

The  wind  was  whispering  to  the  vines 305 

The  word  of  the  Lord  by  night 201 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and 

soon 103 

They  arc  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light  . .     33 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES. 


347 


Tliey  gave    the   whole    long    day  to    idle 

laughter 303 

They  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair. .  292 
They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do 

none 17 

Thine  eyes  still  shone  for  me,  though  far. .  200 

Think  nie  not  unkind  and  rude 199 

This  is  the  ship  of  i)earl,  which,  poets  fain  223 

Til  is  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  tire.  ..  19 

This  only  grant  me,  that  my  means  may  lie  40 

Thou  art,  O  God  !  the  life  and  light. .."....  124 

Tliou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew  . ..  189 

Thou  Grace  Divine,  encircling  all 24.i 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech 234 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God,  my  Jeanie  . .  145 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray 83 

Thou  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles 283 

Tliou,  who  didst  stoop  below 32.5 

Tliree  fishers  went  saihng  out  into  the  west  240 

Three  Poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born  ...  46 

Threescore  o'  nobles  rade  up  the  king's  ha'  78 

Tliree  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  . .  100 

Thrice  happy  she  that  is  so  well  assured. ..  7 

Tliy  banks  were  bonnie.  Yarrow  stream.. .  75 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright 85 

Till  the  slow  daylight  ])ale 272 

'T  is  a  story  told  by  Kalidasa « ^34 

'T  is  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock  110 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 63 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds. . .  187 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 69 

Too  late  I  stayed,  forgive  the  crime 80 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 179 

'T  was  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the   birk- 

tree  was  fa'in 182 

Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matthew  Lee.  185 

Two  dark-eyed  maids,  at  shut  of  day 190 

Two  wandering  angels.  Sleep  and  Death. ..  232 
Two  worlds  there  are.    To  one  our  eyes  we 

strain 276 

Under  the  greenwood-tree 16 

Unto  the  glory  of  thy  Holy  Name 39 

Up  on  the  breezy  headland  the  fisherman's 

grave  they  made 334 

Upon  the  white  sea-sand ." 184 

Veneraous  thorns  that  are  so  sharp  and  keen  4 

Walking  thus  towards  a  pleasant  grove.. ..  29 

Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell 157 

We  are  all  here 169 

We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 220 

We  left  the  city,  street  and  square 335 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn...  283 

What  ails  this  heart  o' mine?    75 

What  is  it  fades  and  flickers  in  the  fire 275 


What !  our  petitions  spumed  !    The  prayer  15S 

Wliat  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan 193 

When  all  is  done  and  said 3 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay  ..  12G 

Whene'er  a  noble  deed  is  wrought 211 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  lieight.   156 

When  God  at  first  made  man 32 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent  ...     38 

When  I  have  said  my  quiet  say 273 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 

eyes 17 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved 107 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 30 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 120 

When  marshalled  on  the  nightly  ]ilain 93 

When  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled ....  229 

When  the  grass  shall  cover  me 273 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the'  fauld,  and  the 

kye  come  hame 85 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought  17 
Where  does  Circumstance  end,  and  Provi- 
dence, where  begins  it?  243 

Where  honor  or  where  conscience  does  not 

bind 41 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  lurk  1 16 

Where  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles 212 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 35 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow 86 

While    sauntering    through    the    crowded 

street 309 

Whilst  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power 136 

Whither,  nudst  falling  dew 187 

Whoe'er  she  be 29 

Who  knoweth  life  but  questions  death 276 

Why  should   I,  with  a  mournful,  morbid 

spleen 309 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing.. ..  261 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 195 

With  deep  affection 171 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn 160 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon  !  thou  climb'st 

the  skies 6 

Within  his  sober  realm  ol  leafless  trees....  279 

Within  the  sunlit  forest 142 

Wouldst  thou  liear  what  man  can  say 19 

Years,  years  ago,  ere  yet  my  dreams 163 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around. . .  82 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers 62 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell 58 

Ye  say  they  all  have  passed  away 260 

Yes,  faith  is  a  goodly  anchor 227 

You  knew,  —  who  knew  not  Astrophel  ?. . ..  7 
Y'ou  lay  a  wreath  on  nuirdered  Lincoln's 

bier 324 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night 13 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn  • 197 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 


Page 

After  Death 272 

Again 274 

Alpine  Sheep,  The 220 

Althea,  To .'iO 

All  's  well 241,  298 

Ambition 168 

Aniiens's  Song 16 

Ambrose 226 

Anchor.  The  Forging  of  the 170 

An  Epistle   to  the  Countess   of  Cumber- 
land, From 14 

Angelic  Ministry 7 

A7igel  in  the  House,  An 144 

Angel's  Visit,  An 271 

Ai>ology,  The 190 

Ariel's  Song 16 

Artist,  The 266 

"  A  Tribute  to  a  Servant,"  From 235 

At  Sea 287 

AnM  Robin  Gray 85 

Antunni,  A  still  Day  in 2^:! 

Avoca,  The  Yale  of 124 

A  wet  Sheet  and  a  flowing  Sea 144 

Azrael ■• 313 

Ball,  After  the 292 

Ball,  The  Belle  of  the 163 

Bnl(|uhither,  The  Braes  o' 88 

Battle-Field,  The  1S9 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic 236 

Bedford,  On  Lucy,  Countess  of. 10 

Begone  Dull  Care  ! 20 

Bells,  The 202 

Bermudas,  The 35 

Berne,  The  Terrace  at 265 

Beitha  2(i8 

Bertha  in  the  Lane 191 

Bethleliein,  The  Star  of 93 

Bin','cn  on  the  Rhine 173 

Hircli  Stream 315 

Bird.  The 32 

Blackbird,  The 340 

Blindness,  On  his 38 

]?lossonis.  To 31 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The 326 

Bonnie  George  Camjibell 76 

Boston  Hymn 201 

"  Bothie  of  Tober-Navuolich,"  From  the. . .  243 

Bower  of  Bliss,  The 9 

"  Break,  break,  break  !  " 196 

Brides  of  Quair,  The  Ballad  of  the 310 

Britlw  of  Sighs,  On  the 300 

Brookside,  The Iso 

Bron^h  Bells 118 

Bucket,  The 147 


Page 

Busle  Song 199 

Burial,  After  the 227 

Burns 165 

Bust  of  Dante,  On  a 231 

Camp,  The  Song  of  the 263 

Campanile  de  Pisa 230 

Cana 246 

Careless  Content 51 

"  Castle  of  Indolence,"  From  the 51 

Celinda 29 

Chameleon,  The 64 

Charity 273 

Chase,  The 252 

Childe's  Destinv,  The 153 

Choir,  The  Old-fashioned 304 

Christabel 110 

Christmas  Hymn 238 

Christmas-Time 107 

Church  Gate,  At  the 195 

Climbing ■• 294 

Columbine,  To  the  Painted 176 

Come  to  me.  Dearest 330 

Coming  Home 250 

Commemoration  Ode 223 

Companionship  of  the  Muse 34 

Concha 299 

Confucius,  The  Music-Lesson  of. 331 

Congress,  To 153 

Content  and  Rich 10 

Contentment 12 

Corn-rj.'tw  Hymn 143 

Coronach 106 

Coronation 204 

Courtin',  The 225 

Cowper's  Grave 194 

Crickets,  The 297 

Cuckoo,  To  the 75,  100 

Cujiid  grown  careful 91 

Cycle,  A 339 

Daffodils,  The 99 

Daffodils,  To .30 

Dance,  The 329 

Dane,  The  Burial  of  the 261 

Dawn 328 

Deacon's  Masterjiiece,  The 221 

Dead,  The 73 

Dead  who  have  died  in  the  Lord,  The 89 

Death  and  the  Youth 254 

Death  of  Dr.  Levett,  On  the 59 

Death  the  Leveller 23 

Death,  The  Secret  of 317 

Death,  Until 251 

Dee,  The  Sands  of 249 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS. 


349 


Defiance,  The  Soul's 148 

])enniti()ns 320 

Description   of  such   a  one  as  he  would 

love,  A 4 

Dickens  in  Camp 301 

Different  Points  of  View 314 

Dirge  for  Fidele 16 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier 290 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline G3 

Doorstep,  The 285 

Dorothy  Q 219 

Doubt 197 

Down  the  Slope 276 

Driving  Home  the  Cows 316 

Duddon,  To  the  River 103 

Duty,  Ode  to 102 

Each  and  All 200 

Edom  o'  Gordon 22 

Election,  The  Eve  of 216 

Elegy 28 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson  ....  84 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churcliyard 60 

Epitaph,  A  Bard's 83 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H 19 

Epithalamiuni 156 

Epithalamiuni,  From  the 8 

Errand,  The  Soul's 6 

Eternal  Light 260 

Eton  College,  Ode  on  a  distant  Prospect  of    62 

Eva.  To 199 

Evelyn  Hope 203 

Evening  Hynni 29 

Evening,  Ode  to 64 

Evening  Song 177 

Eventide 258 

Faces,  The  old  familiar 120 

Fair  and  Unworthy 26 

Faith 175 

Family  Meeting,  The 169 

Farewell  to  the  Fairies 20 

Fate 318 

Fern,  The  Petrified 318 

Field  Preaching 256 

Fireside,  By  the 275 

Fishers,  The  Three 249 

Flag,  The  American 156 

Flowers,  The  l*eath  of  the 188 

Flower,  The 31 

Fly  to  the  Desert 123 

FVir  one  that  hears  himself  much  praised . .  33 

Forest  Worship 142 

Forever  with  the  Lord 135 

Friend  Sorrow 278 

Fringed  Gentian,  To  the 189 

Funeral,  The  Fisherman's 334 

Garden  Song 198 

Garden,  Thoughts  in  a 34 

Gate,  Before  the 303 

Geneva,  The  Lake  of 126 

Genevieve ' 108 

Ghost  at  Noon,  A 142 

Glenara .^. 138 

Glenlogie 78 

Gnome,  The  Green 284 

God  knoweth 307 

God,  The  Kingdom  of 241 

God,  Tlie  Love  of. 245 

God,  The  Will  of 239 

Gold  Coin,  Ode  to  an  Indian 90 

Good  Mon"ow 26 


Gowan  glitters  on  the  Sward,  The 86 

Grongar  Hill 54 

Had  I  a  Heart  for  Falsehood  framed 79 

Happiness 4*5 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  Lark ..'. I6 

Hawthorne 2II 

Health,  A , les 

Heart,  The  Memory  of  the .  156 

Heavenly  Land,  The 57 

Heaven,  The  Present 176 

Heaven,  There  was  Silence  in 1:;6 

Herb  Rosemary,  To  the 92 

Hereafter .312 

Heritage,  The 224 

Her  last  Poem 255 

Hermit,  The 72 

Hester 120 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  Cheek 25 

Highland  Mary 82 

House  in  the  Meadow,  The 290 

Housekeeper,  The 120 

How  near  to  Good  is  what  is  Fair 19 

Hymn 47,  146,  175 

Hymn,  A 52 

Hymn  before  Sunrise,  in  the  Vale  of  Cha- 

mouni 109 

Hymn  for  the  Mother 270 

Hynni  of  Nature 162 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid 107 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity 35 

Hynni  to  Christ 325 

Hynm  to  the  Flowers 140 

Iconoclast,  The 258 

If  thou  wert  by  my  Side ,  143 

Illness,  Written  after  Recovery  from  a  Dan- 
gerous    90 

I  '11  never  love  thee  moi-e 28 

Inchcape  Rock,  The 117 

Indian  Names 260 

In  .June 291 

In  Memoriam 340 

Inner  Calm,  The 247 

In  Priscm 39 

In  School-Days 215 

Inspiration 236 

In  the  Defences 2SS 

In  the  Mist 327 

In  the  8ea 298 

Intimations  of  Immortality 97 

Inward  Music 178 

Irish  Emigrant,  The 163 

Isaac  Ashford 80 

Island,  The 185 

Italian  Song 81 

Italy.     A  Prophecy 339 

"  It  IS  more  blessed  " 259 

"  I  will  abide  in  thine  House  " 277 

I  would  not  live  alway 162 

Jeanie  Morrison 159 

Jester's  Sermon,  The 293 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul 58 

John  Davidson 78 

Judge  not 278 

July  Dawning 335 

Keith  of  Ravelston 257 

Kindred  Hearts 154 

Knowing 234 

Krumley 254 

Labor 175 


350 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS. 


Lady  Anne  Ilamilton,  To  the 89 

1/iUy  Barbara 264 

Lady  Mary  Ann 77 

Lament 137 

Lament  lor  Astropliel  (8ir  Pliilii)  Sidney)..  7 

Lament  for  Flodden 88 

Land  o'  the  Lea!,  The SCi 

Landward 287 

Laus  Deo  ! 210 

Lav  of  the  Imprisoned  Huntsman 105 

Leader,  Tlie  Lost 207 

Lent,  To  lieep  a  true 31 

Liberty 41 

Life 7J 

Lincoln,  Abraham 324 

Lincolnsliire,  I'he  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  280 

Lines  to  my  Motlier's  Picture 09 

Lines   written  in   Richmond  Churcliyard, 

Yorkshire 93 

Listening  for  God 307 

Lochinvar,  Young 104 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter 139 

Losses 1S4 

Loss  of  the  Royal  George 69 

Love 2 J9 

Love  and  Friendship 105 

Love  Divine,  all  Love  excelling 58 

Lovers,  The  Pui  itan 302 

Lover,  The 253 

Love,  The  Buri.il  of 190 

Love  will  find  out  the  Way 19 

Lucasta,  To 30 

Lucy  's  Flittin' 182 

Maidenhood 209 

Majestv  of  God 3 

Man,  The  Last 133 

March 297 

Mariana 195 

Mariner's  Ilyinu 148 

Mariner's  <\  ife,  The 71 

Jlarriage 154 

Mary  in  Heaven,  To 83 

Mary  Morison 82 

Master's  Touch,  The 247 

Match,  A 286 

May 155 

May-Day  Song 20 

Mazzini 304 

Meeting,  The  Quiet 319 

Melanie,  From 172 

Memory 196 

Memory,  A 100 

Men  of  (.)ld,  The 180 

Midwinter 320 

Milton's  Prayer  in  Blindness 237 

Mind,  The  Innnnrtal 123 

Mine  Own 333 

Ministry,  A  Bird's 321 

Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella,  The 79 

Mont  Blanc 126 

Morning 177 

Morning  Hymn 46 

Morning  Meditations 160 

Morning  Street,  The 328 

>[oses,  The  Burial  of. 237 

Mother,  To  a  Bereaved: 137 

Mountains,  The 262 

Mummv.  Address  to  an  Egyptian 141 

Muses,  To  the .' 86 

Music 26 

Musical  Instrument,  A 103 

My  Hirtliday 214 

My  Life  is  lilve  the  Summer  Rose 152 


My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is 15 

My  old  Kentucky  Nurse 303 

Mvsteries  of  Providence 71 

Myth,  A 250 

My  Times  are  in  thy  Hand 246 

Nature,  The  Lessons  of 12 

Nature,  The  noble 18 

Nearer  Home 256 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee 245 

Never  again 287 

New  England  Spring 224 

New  Sinai,  The 242 

Niagara,  The  Fall  of 155 

Night  and  Death 89 

Night,  The  mid  Hour  of 124 

No  Age  content  with  his  own  Estate 3 

Not  ours  the  Vows 144 

November 287 

Nymph's  Reply,  The 5 

Of  a'  the  Airts  the  Wind  can  blaw 82 

Oi'  Myself 40 

O  Lassie  ayont  the  Hill ! 270 

Old  Age  and  Death 40 

O  may  I  join  the  Choir  Invisible  ! 248 

One  Word  is  too  often  profaned 128 

Oriental  Idyl,  An 262 

O  Saviour  !  whose  Mercy 173 

O  Thou  who  dry'st  tlie  Mourner's  tear 124 

Our  Heroes 289 

Our  Mary 169 

Outward  Bound 250 

Over  the  River 277 

O,  why  should  the  Spirit  of  Mor;,al  be  proud  149 

Painter  who  pleased  Nobody  and  Everybody, 

The 50 

Palm  and  the  Pine,  The 181 

Pan  in  Wall  Street : 285 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  XXIII 47 

Parson,  Character  of  a  Good 46 

Passing  away 157 

Paul  Revere's  Ride 207 

Peace 257 

Petition  to  Time,  A 179 

Picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm,  On  a. . .   101 

Pilgrim  Song 168 

Pilgrim,  Tlie 5 

Pirate,  The .' 185 

Piscataqua  River 283 

Pleasure  mixed  with  Pain 4 

Poet  of  To-Day,  The 263 

Portrait  of  Red  Jacket,  On  a 166 

Prayer 39,  136 

Prayer  in  Sickness,  A 179 

Prayer,  The  Universal 48 

Pre-existence 309 

Primrose,  To  an  Earl v 92 

Problem  The '. 200 

Prophecv,  The  Souls 202 

Psalm  of  Life,  A 209 

Puck,  The  Fairy  to 16 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 244 

Queen  of  Bohemia,  To  his  Mistress,  the —     13 
Quiet  from  God t 244 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 204 

Rain,  After  the 2S3 

Rain,  Before  the 283 

Ready 321 

Reason 46 

Recesses,  Fioiu  the. 146 


INDEX   OF   SUBJECTS. 


351 


Resignation  . .  v 39,  210 

Rest 32 

Revenge  of  Injuries 13 

Rlieinis,  Tiie  Jackdaw  of 150 

Riches,  Tlie  House  of 9 

Right  must  win,  Tlie 239 

Rivers,  All  the 306 

Robin  Goodfellow 21 

Robinson  of  Leyden 221 

Rocky   Mountains   in  Winter,  after  many 

Years,  On  recrossing  the 335 

Royalty 241 

Ruth 161 


Sabbath,  The 

Saint  Agnes,  The  Eve  of 

Santa  Filoniena 

Schoolmistress,  The 

Sea  Dirge,  A 

Sea-Limits,  The 

Search  after  God. .   

Seen  and  Unseen 

Seneca  Lake,  To 

Sennacherib,  The  Destruction  of 

Serenade,  A : 

Settler,  The 

Seven  times  Four 

Seven  times  Seven 

Shandon,  The  Bells  of 

Shay,  The  One-Hoss 

Shepiierd-Boy,  The 

Shepherd  to  his  Love,  The  i>assionate.. 

She  's  gane  to  dwall  in  Heaven 

She  walks  in  Beauty 

Slie  was  a  Phantom  oi'  Delight 

Shirt,  The  Song  of  the. . ." 

Sic  Vita 

Siren's  Song,  The 

Sir  John  Moore,  The  Burial  of 

Sisters,  Tlie 

Skylark,  To  a 

Sleep  and  Death 

Sleep,  The 

Sleep,  To 

Sleepy  Hollow 

Small  Beginnings 

Soldier's  Return,  The 

Song 25,  49,  105,  161, 

Song,  A 

Song  for  Saint  Cecilia's  Day,  1687 

S  ng  of  a  Fellow-Worker 

Song  of  Hesperus 

Song  of  Trust,  A 

Sonnet 

Sonnets 6, 

Soul,  The 

Soul,  The  Sabbath  of  the 

Soul,  The  Upright 

Sower,  The 

Spectre  Horse,  The 

Spiri  ts.  Unseen 

Spring  in  Carolina 

Spring,  The  Late 

Stanzas 

Stanzas  written  in  De.jection  near  Naples.. 

Statue,  The 

Stream  of  Life,  The 

Strip  of  Blue,  A 

Submission 

Summer  Day,  A 10, 

Summer  Dnys 

Summer  Shower,  After  a 

Summons,  The  Fisherman's 

Sunflower.  The 


174 
129 
211 

59 

16 
295 

26 
240 
155 
125 
105 
234 
2S2 
282 
171 
221 
253 
4 
145 
125 
100 
163 

27 

25 
152 
254 
127 
232 
190 
103 
235 
218 

87 
313 
338 

46 
337 

lo 
308 
168 
,  17 

11 

74 
269 
329 
186 
172 
311 
291 
117 
127 
326 
243 
274 
296 
295 
183 
147 
336 

272 


Sunlight  and  Starlight 277 

Sunset,  The  CoUlen 244 

Survivors,  The 2('8 

Swallow,  The  Departure  of  the 182 

Sweet  Home 153 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore 311 

Take  thv  auld  Cloak  about  thee 24 

Temple,'  The  Living 219 

Thanatopsis 187 

The  Barring  o'  the  Door 24 

The  Boatie  rows 77 

The  Chambered  Nautilus 223 

The  closing  Scene 279 

The  common  Lot 135 

"  The  Deserted  Village,"  From 65 

The  Evening  Cloud 146 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray 67 

The  Good  Man 13 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake 212 

The  larger  Hope 197 

The  Midges  dance  aboon  the  Burn 88 

The  Rapture  of  Kilmenv 121 

'•  The  Rivulet,"  From  .'. 190 

The  sweet  Neglect 19 

They  are  all  gone ••  •     33 

Thou  art,  O  God 124 

Thought 3 

Thou  hast  sworn  by  thy  God 145 

Thine  Eyes  still  shone 200 

Tibbie  I'nghs 181 

Tiger,  The 85 

To-Day  and  To-Morrow 212' 

Too  Late 250 

Touchstone,  The 217 

Trosachs,  The 105 

Trust 179 

Tubal  Cain 218 

Twcntv-three,  On  arriving  at  the  Age  of. ..     38 
Two  Moods 337 

Una  and  the  Lion 8 

Unawiires 305 

Under  Milton's  Picture 46 

Under  the  Greenwood-Tree 16 

Unseen - 318 

Up  Above 247 

Urania "266 

Urvasi 334 

Vanishers,  The 215 

Venice,  Sunrise  in 314 

Vespers "'^73 

Violets,  Under  the 223 

Virtue 31 

Virtuous,  The  Death  of  the 74 

Vision,  A 83 

Voiceless,  The 220 

Voyagers,  The 262 

Waiting 316,  327 

"  Wallcer  in  Nicaragua,"  From 313 

Waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonny 76 

Warnings,  The  three 73 

Waterfowl,  To  a 187 

Waters,  The  Meeting 273 

Way  to  sing,  The 295 

Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life,  The 239 

We  are  Brethren  a' 184 

Weary 272 

What  ails  this  Heart  o'  mine? 75 

What  is  the  Use  ?  321 

When  Maggie  gangs  away 121 

When  the  Grass  shail  cover  me 273 


352 


INDEX   OF  SUBJECTS. 


Whilst  thee  I  seek 136 

White  Underneath 307 

Wliy  thus  longing  ? 251 

Wish,  A 81 

AVislies 29 

AVisliing 232 

Witness,  The  Sure 255 

W(  iniiin 252 

Wdiiiau's  Love,  A 305 

WdUKin,  The  true 7 

Woods,  From  the 309 


Wordsworth 260 

Word,  The  Last 266 

Work 337 

World,  The 103 

World,  The  Other 248 

AVorlds,  The  Two 276 

Yarrow  Stream 75 

Yarrow,  The  Braes  of 56 

Yarrow  unvisited 101 

Ye  golden  Lamps  of  Heaven,  farewell ! 58 


THE    END, 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


J^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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1932 


I  NOV    1 

MAY  1 8 1982 


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liRL    MAY  22 


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